


Lemondrop Clouds

by Knickity



Category: Glee, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (or how Harry went from dealing with weird wizard crap to weird muggle crap), Everyone has "Issues" - Freeform, Ft. Mute!Harry (which honestly is this a thing), Harry has "Issues" - Freeform, Hermione has "Issues"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knickity/pseuds/Knickity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a new student at McKinley High, and he is turning heads wherever he goes. Harry Potter wanted normal. That was it. But this? This...this was beyond normal. A newly-mute Harry escapes to Lima and runs amok among our favorite Glee group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lemon Clouds

It took them a few weeks to notice it.

Which was actually kinda surprising, considering just exactly how perceptive Rachel was with any and everything that had to do with music. The woman was borderline obsessive about it, honestly. Just last week, she was seen skipping throughout the hallways, a gigantic smile on those weirdly large lips of hers and a binder that looked like it weighed a thousand pounds, stuffed full of sheet music with different-colored post-it notes sticking out of it. She seemed almost weightless as she traversed the hallways, mouthing the words to a song that only she could hear. One of the mindless high school drones that always seemed to line the hallways snickered and stuck their foot out, catching her mid-skip.

She took an impressive tumble to the ground, a blurred mass of flyaway brown hair and pink argyle sweater. Her papers flew from their binder, floating and whizzing like birds through the air, before gently floating down and being trampled in the mass of people that was the hallways of Mckinley High. She was currently crouched on the ground, blindly snatching any extra papers that she could and shoving them back into her binder.

"I bet that people won't behave like this in New York," she muttered under her breath, "I bet that there, everyone helps everyone, no matter what!" She continued her quiet rant as she scrambled around on the dirty floors of the high school, offering up half-hearted apologies to the multiple students who were struggling not to trip over her.

"Thoughtless, incorrigible, oh, yes, sorry, yes, please watch your step-oh." She blinked in surprise as she felt a warm hand cover her own, spreading sudden tingles up her arms. She slowly raised her head, suddenly incredibly nervous-a feeling that Rachel "Star" Berry was not used to.

"H-hi there," Rachel breathed out, drinking in the beautiful piece of human before her. Slender legs with heavily muscled thighs, clad in black jeans and a dark green hoodie, the apparition before her was the Willy Wonka of eye candy. With his shaggy dark hair and the face-obscuring hood, it was rather hard to discern any of his physical features. From Rachel's rather compromised position on the floor, she could only see a shy smile beaming out from the shadows of his hood.

Rachel took a moment to regain her breath. God, that boy–well, what she could see of him, at least–was H–O–T.

It took Rachel a moment to realize that she was staring. Her cheeks burned, and she shook herself for a second.

"Um," she tried again, seeing as the smiling boy still hadn't answered her, "I'm Rachel. Berry, that is. Rachel Berry." The boy's smile quirked into a smirk at her stumbling introduction. Rachel mentally cursed herself for her nervous demeanor. A star couldn't stutter at someone just because they were attractive!

Still, the boy remained silent, with his face tilted in her general direction. With a small nod downwards, Rachel realized that his hand was still covering hers, and she felt her cheeks flush again.

"This is, uh, the part where you introduce yourself." Rachel murmured.

The boy tilted his head slightly, before lifting his hand and making a complicated twirling motion with his hands and fingers.

"Um," Rachel said, dumbfounded. "What?" The boy seemed to sigh, then pointed at his throat and mimed talking by flapping his hand open and closed, with his thumb below the rest of his fingers. He then shook his head from side to side.

With a start, Rachel realized what his weird "dance" was. The boy was using sign language.

"Oh," she breathed, "Can you not talk?" The guy nodded.

Briefly, Rachel imagined a world where she wouldn't be able to sing, to talk, to shout, and her mouth opened in horror. She wouldn't be able to sing. To pour out her heart in the most meaningful way that she knew how to. To talk, discuss, to admit love, to scream in anger or fear or frustration. He wouldn't be able to do that. He could move around, or use hand language, sure, but who else knew sign language? Basically no one. It was a rare skill to have. Rachel Berry's talent lay with her voice, and everything else had always come second to her.

Her voice was her everything, and this boy...he didn't have that.

"That's horrible," she finally said, looking at him with sympathy. He gave a little smile and shrugged, as if saying, "oh well". He passed a bundle of papers over to her, having successfully collected them from the floor. He rose with the lithe grace of a tiger, gave a little wave, and turned away. Rachel shot up from the floor and grabbed his arm, ignoring the sudden tense of his muscles underneath his clothing.

"Hey," she said, "If you're new here, you can come sit with me and my friends at lunch, if you want. We can show you around after." He looked down at her, with a face still shadowed by his thick hoodie. He gave her another soft smile that slowly seemed to melt into a frown. He gave her one last, long glance and shook his head in the universal symbol for "No,". He turned and rushed down the now-empty hallway, finally turning the corner that led to the music rooms.

Rachel stood there, dumbfounded. He had seemed so nice at first, too. Maybe he didn't want to become infected with the loser-status that automatically came from being associated with Glee? But no, that couldn't be it. He had, after all, stopped to help her pick up her papers, and she was the most notorious gleek of all of them. She sent one last, long, glance after the elusive hottie, jumping slightly as the bell rang, signaling the beginning of third period.

Scowling, Rachel raced off to History, deciding to contemplate McKinley's newest mystery student later.


	2. Backin' Up the Track (Wizard Style)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's story develops, and we see a bit more of the Boy-Who-Has-No-More-Shits-To-Give.

Harry Bloody Potter was sick and tired of being the Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-who-Conquered, and, his personal favorite, Boy-Who-Just-Couldn't-Bloody-Die. He was tired of smiling shyly and modestly ducking his head as everyone cooed and cheered him on.

Honestly, his life was not a movie series, and he wasn't a hero, he was a bloody murderer–what did these people want from him?

People expected a lot from him now. They wanted him, they wanted his fame, they wanted his body, his mystical 'powers', they wanted to know that, surely, he must have been changed somehow by being the Master of Death or whatever, and was he sure that he didn't have some weird tattoo or something like that, and was he all-powerful or what, and what the bloody hell Harry we're your friends you can talk to us please talk to us, talk to us, just talk...

Harry took an unreasonably deep breath, desperately trying to focus on his ragged breathing. He felt himself slip to the ground, tangling his nimble fingers in his perpetually messy locks. No, I can't, I can't, don't you get it…

Get a hold of yourself, Potter. Stand up. There, there, that's better. Shoulders back, head up, eyes alert, there we go…

Brilliant green eyes snapped open.

Lord Harry James Potter-Peverell-Black (he knew that there were more names in his title, but it was too damn long enough already) was tired of being hounded by the press, hounded by overbearing mother figures, tired of being asked what 'business' he had been gone for last month, tired of patient looks, calming draughts in Wizengamot sessions, of tight brown buns and grating voices, of demands for money, of demands for change, for support, for influence, for please, Harry, please, just a few more tests, they aren't that bad, you want to help these people still, right?

Freak, or sometimes Boy, was tired. Just that. Just tired. Even after the Dursleys, even after trying to get their love, even after doing everything for them, even after (being the one to risk their lives in the first place, after being worthless, a nuisance, a burden) doing what everyone else asked of him, after being the hero, cleaning up Tom's and the sheeps' messes, after everything, just wanted to rest, in a real bed, or maybe a warm cupboard, it didn't matter to him. He just wanted out.

Out of his life.

Out of the chains and wait what no, no, you said this wouldn't hurt, what are you–Hermionie? HERMIONIE! Stop! No, don't, I don't want...I don't want thisss...poishions…

He sighed, massaging his temples before dropping his hands loosely to his sides.

He couldn't do it. He just couldn't do it anymore.

The front door to Grimmauld Place opened with a soft creak that they still hadn't manage to fix.

"Harry, mate?" Soft, tentative footsteps followed, and Harry heard the front door shut once more. "Where are ya?" Harry answered by stomping his foot as hard as he could on the wooden floor. The footsteps in the front hall stopped their wandering, and a pale face overrun with freckles poked around the open doorway, a layer of floppy red hair plastered to his forehead. Harry gave Ron a sincere smile that didn't seem to reach his eyes. Ron returned it without any hesitation.

"Hey mate. Bloody Hell, have you been in here all day? You need to get out more." He gave a slightly breathless laugh and ran his finger through his fiery hair, a habit that he had picked up from Harry. "You're turning into bloody Sirius." Harry tilted his head and glanced pointedly at the many-handed clock adorning the room's far wall. Ron blinked twice at it. "Oh," he gave a self-deprecating smile and a small shrug. "Sorry, mate. Didn't realize it was only ten. These blasted night Auror shifts keep messin' up my sense of time."

"Ronald Billius Weasley!"

Both wizards winced at the sharp voice emanating from the open font hallway, although only Harry cringed at the subsequent boot-stomping that rang throughout the compact house. Ron's lanky form peeled off of the doorway frame and sprawled out on the floor next to Harry. Harry shot him a grateful smile. Ron grinned, before yelling out, "In here, Hermione!"

Harry's newly-sensitive ears rang at the sheer volume of the call. He shook his head, lightly smiling. After all of these years, Ron was still scruffy and loud–some things never changed.

"There you are! Harry, what in the name of Merlin are you doing here? I thought you'd have been at the Ministry hours ago! You need to talk," both Harry and Ron cringed at the word, "to Finnigan about the Floo installments, Bill about the wards, Kingsley about the aurors, Patil still needs that interview, and Luna's set up another...appointment," Harry gave a noticeable wince at this, while Ron looked suspiciously at Hermione's slanting eyes, "for this afternoon at four."

Hermione hadn't changed much after the war. Although everyone had expected her to go back for her eighth year of Hogwarts, Hermione said, with some irritation, that 'half of the teachers left have either tried to kill us, threatened us with corporeal punishment, or are utter, blubbering idiots with brains the size of a teaspoon.' That had made everyone laugh, providing a much-needed reprieve from the stress of interviews, stuttering introductions, and sweaty handshakes with the simpering 'sheople' (Ron's term for the human lemmings of Britain) longing to greet their saviors. Both Hermione and Ron had been fast-tracked into Ministry programs. Hermione was preparing to become the Supreme Heralder of Unusual Treatments/Unexplained Phenomenon (or S.H.U.T./U.P.), a member of an elite team of Unspeakables whose goal was to solve all strange maladies relating to singularly unique creatures and beings. It was basically the hushed-up brainchild resulting from a threesome with the Department of Magical Creatures, St. Mungos, and the Unspeakables–the ultimate combination of all things Hermione (including the rather horrible acronym, as Ron had later pointed out. Hermione had literally hexed his skin pink for the next week).

Ron, who had always favored strategy over anything else, was currently being trained to take over for the aging Head Strategist of the Aurors, and was still being forced to take on the dreaded night shift guarding the Department of Mysteries.

Harry, however, had been forced to become a full-time celebrity. He had made countless speeches, shaken millions of hands, and given his approval for bills that he didn't understand, but had Hermione's stamp of approval on them, far too often. And there was always someone who still needed him to just do something, Harry. He just wanted to stop. But that would come later. He sighed, and reluctantly stood up. His long-time friend grinned and hoisted his tall body off of the ground to follow them, and his handler gave a sharp-eyed smile before yanking his elbow and the rest of him out of the door and into the outside world.

And with that, the great heroes of Wizarding Britain walked into what was soon to be one of the greatest travesties of the UK's magical history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya there! Knickity again, and sorry, long time, no see. Anyways, this work is primarily up on Fanfiction.com under the same username with the title of Lemondrop Clouds, but I figured that I might as well post it here too. :) Anyways, slight disclaimer, I don't own Glee or Harry Potter. I just get to play with the delicious leftovers. 
> 
> Now, I hate to be annoying, but if you review, I will love you forever and try to respond w/answers to any questions that you guys may have! I know that this chapter kind of took a break from McKinley, but it is the beginning of the buildup to what drives Harry to leave Britain and jump on the McKinley Bandwagon. Please Please PLEASE criticize me for anything that you might find or want me to possibly change/add more info on. I'd love to hear your feedback, especially whatever thoughts you might have on Pairings. Sorry for the long note...anyways, Love you guys, and feel free to comment!


	3. Movin' To the Ministry

Harry squirmed uncomfortably, still trying to subtly shake off the after-effects of Side-Along Apparition. Dear Merlin, he hated Wizard Transport, especially when he wasn't even allowed to bloody apparate on his own. He shook Hermione off of his arm, the two exchanging a brief glare before Hermione's face melted back into a glittering smile. She glanced over Harry's shoulder, tugging a disoriented Ron forward as she did so. Her megawatt smile never faltered for a second, even when Harry's narrowed eyes met her own.

"Harry? Hey, you alright, mate?" Harry's face shifted seamlessly into an expression of happy contentment, pushing down the urge to snarl at Hermione before turning to Ron and practically beaming while gesturing with one arm for them to leave the alley they had appeared in.

"Right then," Hermione said, all business, "Let's go." Her engagement ring glinted on her left hand as she stepped into the morning sunlight. Ron's pale hand sought out her own, and their hands slid together, two pieces of the simplest, most exquisite puzzle known to man. Harry watched with shadowed eyes as Ron ran his thumb over the gleaming surface of Hermione's simple silver ring. Harry's eyes shifted to the slightly thicker gold band on Ron's other hand, as it swung at his side. Harry gave a sigh and sent one last, longing glance towards the dark mouth of the alley that they had popped into before trudging reluctantly after the happy couple. A frown marred his face with the sudden reminder of his own 'love interest'. He tugged his eyes away the happy, soon-to-be-married couple and glared at the cracked asphalt passing under his shoes.

_No, he wouldn't, couldn't, think of her here, not now, not ever, just...never. And it wasn't, hadn't been, his fault._

He shot another hard stare at the back of Hermione's head. The girl twitched, but continued to stride confidently down the street. They walked by muggle men in business suits, a teenager dressed in a striped apron setting up her wares on a roller cart, all kinds of people just going about their day. Harry wanted that, he decided. He had always wanted it really, had always _craved_ that far-fetched ideal of 'normality'. First to please the Dursley's impossible standards, and then to inject peace and quiet into his chaotic life. There was no use pretending–he was pretty much the antithesis of "Normal". His thoughts slurred and stopped as they halted in front of the firetruck-red MIM phone booth. Smiling and laughing, the Golden Trio jammed themselves into the cramped booth amidst flying elbows and waving hair. _I remember this being bigger in Fifth Year,_ Harry thought, smiling. Oh well. Both Hermione and Ron took up a lot of space. Harry had never really been any sort of substantial.

They listened with detached interest as the pleasantly cool voice, which hadn't changed a bit, even after all of these years, led them through the process of getting name badges. Ron pinned his "Strategy Head In Training" badge to his robes with pride, and shot Harry a concerned and confused glance when he started gasping for breath. He perked up again at the sight of one of Harry's rare, genuine smiles. Harry shook his head and motioned for Hermione to take her own gilded badge, the emblem of the SHUT/UPs prominently displayed across the crest. Hermionie stilled Harry's outstretched arm with her own hand, and spoke sharply for him, ignoring his sharp look.

"And Harry Potter," she said, "For Unspeakable treatments and Political Machinations." Ron glanced at Harry and gave a fondly exasperated eye-roll. Harry took one more look at him and burst into his silent laughter, much to Hermione's displeasure. Harry snuck one more amused glance at Ron's S.H.I.T. badge before the secret lift began transporting them to the inner depths of the MIM.

The interior had definitely changed from the first time that he had entered the subterranean atrium. The giant fountain statues had (fortunately, at least in Harry's eyes) been utterly destroyed in the fight against Voldemort. In their place stood a gargantuan statue of three Magi*, with a silver witch and a bronze wizard flanking a golden wizard in their center. Harry looked up at his visage with a curled lip. He hadn't been a hero–why the bloody hell did he need a statue in the bloody ministry?

The statues were, he had to grudgingly admit, pretty spectacular. His eyes had been made of emeralds, his hair carved from Obsidian, his infamous scar a vein of brilliant diamond set forever in its slightly off-kilter spot in his forehead. His statue was standing, arm outstretched, clutching a giant topaz-and-ruby replica of his faithful Holly wand in what Harry thought was supposed to be a triumphant, defiant pose. The robes that fluttered around the large form seemed to sparkle in the false sunlight of the Ministry. Ron, cast from bronze, was on his left, and seemed like he was about to leap from Harry's side and attack enemies at any time. Hermione, plated in silver, stood to his right, wand held cautiously in the basic way they had been taught to in the DA. The large mass of tiger's eye that formed her hair somehow made it seem just as frizzy as it had always been, much to Hermione's consternation. Ron's own hair was created from Siam. The same stones dotted his bronze cheeks, solid depictions of Ron's infamous freckles, his eyes no more than two round Lapis stones. Hermione's eyes glittered with hidden knowledge, seemingly entrapped in the light smoked topaz. All of the statues twinkled in the sun, almost blinding in their splendor.

Harry hated it.

They continued towards the check-in desk, which no one had ever bothered removing after the war, and exchanged small talk with Edgar Point, a muggleborn Hufflepuff that had graduated before them. He cheerfully checked each of their wands, insisted on shaking their hands, and wished them all pleasant days before finally checking the next group's wands and moving on with his job.

"Alright, mates," Ron gave a lopsided grin and loped off to the entrance of the lifts, "Well, I'm off to that bloody," he ignored Hermione's half-hearted "Ron, language!" and ploughed on, "Auror's training. I swear to Merlin's scraggled beard, if it's Ellis teaching again, I'm going to rip her bloody––" Harry never found out just what anatomy the unfortunate Ellis was about to lose. The lift doors shut on Ron, whisking him away to the Auror training levels. Harry sighed at his best mate's abrupt departure. Now it was just him and Hermione left.

_Hermione._

_Shit._

"Well, Harry," Hermione's lips pursed in a rather pathetic imitation of a smile, "Let's go take care of some business, shall we?"

Harry gulped, but there was nothing he could do. Not in such a crowded area, pretty much unable to use his magic in the best way he knew how. He would have to follow Hermione.

_Merlin Damnit._

* * *

 

*Magi=my own sorta-nerdy, gender-neutral term for witches and wizards

Word count: 1157

Again, please review...I'd absolutely love to hear your feedback, reactions, and any other suggestions all y'all brilliant people might have!

_Your cocoa server today was Knickity._


	4. The Department of Organized Chaos

Hermione and Harry traipsed through the Ministry, Harry struggling to keep up with the witch's harried pace. He tripped over himself as they raced down an elegant staircase, tangling his foot on the hem of his robes and tumbling forward. Hermione's hand shot out and grabbed his arm, desperately yanking him back at the last moment. Harry shot her a grateful nod and a smile. Hermione sent back one of her own small smiles, and for a moment, just a moment, all seemed right in the world. It was as if someone had flipped a switch to go back in time, and he could see his Hermione, the Hermione that had always stood by him, despite all of the crazy crap he had pulled over the years, the Hermione that had danced around in joy after Voldemort's defeat, only to trip and fall over the mutilated body of what had once been a living person.

"I'll always have your back, Harry," Hermione was still smiling, "Just trust me that I'll always know what's best for you, okay?" And just like that, the moment was shattered, broken and over with a simple sentence. _Yes Hermione,_ Harry thought bitterly, _you've DEFINITELY had my best interests at heart, as long as they don't interfere with your own curiosity._

Harry vaguely remembered Hermione saying something rather inspiring about bravery and friendship being more important than books and cleverness in their first year. _Bloody hypocrite._

At Harry's nod and false smile, Hermione turned and resumed their long trek down the stairs until reaching the Department of Mysteries. Hermione grinned at the guard, who waved them through with a gaping mouth and bulging eyes. Both Hermione and Harry exchanged brief snorts of contempt at their fame. Hermione strode into the many-doored room and walked to the far door, directly in front of the original hall entrance. Extracting her wand from somewhere within her obviously tailored robes, she carefully used an underpowered _Incendio_ to mark the door with a familiar rune. The original triangle and circle of the Deathly Hallows, intersected with a zig-zag shape that resembled Harry's infamous scar, was now burned into the door. The whole entryway shone in a bright blue light before the solid wood door dissolved into wispy tendrils of mist that dissipated in the air. Harry admired the spectacle for a few seconds, before hurrying to catch up with the already-moving Hermione.

They had walked into absolute chaos.

Dozens of Ministry Employees, all clad in the pearly gray robes of the infamous Unspeakables, scurried around. Papers soared along the vaulted ceilings, suspended in midair, some lazily floating around while others zipped and zoomed into their recipient's waiting hands. A veritable rainbow of sparks were constantly intermixing and mingling with different volleys of spells. The whole area was covered with the thick layers of magic emanating from the many magi mixing around them. The numerous wards and runes active in the underground department brushed over Harry's skin as they stepped through the doorway. He shivered at the tingle of magic passing over him, even as it coated him in protective spells. Harry automatically turned his head to the disdainfully sniffing Hermione at his side, an imbecilic grin plastered on his face.

Harry loved this Department.

Well, he hated it a bit, too, of course. Fifth year had seen to that, but ever since Luna had taken over this section of the Ministry, it was common knowledge that this was a haven of chaos. This was where one could try anything, do anything, _be anything at all,_ and all with the freedom and insanity that came with anything remotely associated with Luna Lovegood.

"Come on, Harry, let's go, we're late already." Hermione gave Harry's robe a sharp yank, directing him over to a small table in one of the room's many corners. Hermione gave him a narrowed-eyed glare, a patented look that had _get on with it_ written all over. Harry shrugged and rubbed his scar with his index finger before placing it in the sole dish resting on the table. He drew his finger back the instant he touched the warm liquid pooled in the bottom of the shallow bowl. He patted his finger on Hermione's head, before rubbing the silvery substance onto his wrist. The ink glowed for a second before it faded into nothing more than a translucent shield. Hermione gave him a tight smile of thanks.

The table suddenly disappeared, collapsing on itself and fading into the marbled stone floors. The wall in front of them darkened and disappeared. They passed through the entrance, scooping up two tiny vials of potion resting on a nearby shelf as they walked. Hermione stopped him, resting one elegant hand on his shoulder, before an imposing set of double doors.

"Hold up a minute, okay, Harry? How are you feeling?" Her smile was earnest, but her eyes were eager.

 _Oh, so she's gonna play the 'concerned friend' card this time, is she?_ Harry quickly hid his irritation and beamed back, giving her (what he hoped was) a cheeky grin and a double thumbs-up. _Last time it was for research, then for the expansion of the truth, and so far, today's theme is 'for my own good'._

"Excellent, excellent. Well, I'll be out here if you need me okay? Right here. I've still got your back. Just holler if you need me!" She gave a jaunty wave, smirked, and spun on her heel, practically skipping out of 'their' hidden chamber, presumably to go find Luna for his 'treatment'. Harry stared after her in disbelief, replaying her words in his head.

' _Holler if you need me?' Is that a Goddamned joke? She_ does _know why we're here, right?_ Harry grit his teeth and shook his head in an attempt to clear his head and sedate his rampaging thoughts. _It's over today, at least. I'll know for sure at the end of this session. That's positive, right? Yeah, that's right, Potter: just look at the bright side._ Dear Merlin, he couldn't even give himself a proper pep talk. Mental, he sent the heavy, stone-carved door a glare hot enough to melt stone, jostled his pockets to make sure he still had the necessary calming draught on him, checked his wrist for the Purple-Pointer-Person-Potion was still working, took a deep breath, and threw the doors open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Sorry for all the short chapters and the long update waits. Life is getting kinda crazy. I blame responsibility and Hamilton for the most part. Please yell at or rant to me in the comments! Love you all, and have a great life! ;)


	5. And So Begins The End

Aw Hell no. 

Harry Potter looked around the rather cramped room a second time. He was honestly this close to turning around and walking back out the doors, regardless of whatever Hermione might have thought.

The room was all gray stone, made of thick, jagged blocks that strongly discouraged any attempt to harm them. The thick doors he had just passed would be near-impossible to exit once they were closed and locked from the inside, as they were sure to be during the tedious 'procedure' that Hermione and Luna had planned. Harry had to fight the urge to shudder at the term 'procedure', and felt his mouth dry looking at the gleaming metal table placed prominently in the room's center. Tough leather straps were fixed to different edges around the table, with sharp-looking buckles that Harry knew would magically mold together the second they touched his skin. A small side table was placed next to the time. It reminded Harry strongly of the ones that he had seen at the Grangers' dental practice. Hermione had practically dragged him to her parents' offices when she found out that he had never had a legit dentist appointment before. Despite the men of the Dursley household's best efforts, Harry had pretty much perfect teeth. He grinned at the memory. It was a small victory, but a win nonetheless.

Other than the table, the room was actually pretty bare. A series of wooden cabinets and counters stuck out from the walls, with various syringes, scalpels, gloves, potions, and other things deemed necessary for the surgery all carefully stocked and labeled inside of them. Harry sent a particularly vengeful glare towards that particular cabinet. There was another door placed exactly opposite the entrance to the chamber. It had a weird, half-moon marking burned into its center plank. Harry eyed it warily. No one had ever gone into, or come out, of the door before. He had once gestured to the door, asking Hermione about it with his face and arm gestures. She had shrugged, frowned at him, and gone back to working. Harry wondered if there was some sort of concealing charm on it; nothing else could possibly explain Hermione's nonchalance about a mysterious door that no one seemed to know anything about

Harry's scar gave a small twitch. He rubbed it absent-mindedly. It had taken him some time to get used to the sensation and not react like a chicken with its head cut off whenever it had started to react to the potion. Voldemort's haunting visions were still fresh in his mind, and the itchiness that Luna's potion caused always brought those back to the forefront of his mind.

Luna's Patented-Purple-Pointer-Person-Potion was a new invention that she had concocted with a slightly-less-pratty Draco Malfoy's help. Harry had strongly disapproved at first. Hermione hadn't gone on her insane 'let's all research Harry until he literally can't anymore" spree yet, and the two had gotten into an insane shouting match when Luna had first brought the aristocratic blonde along to propose the collaboration in making the potion. Luna had patiently waited, flipping through an old copy of The Quibbler and reading it from right to left, as they had screamed themselves hoarse at each other. When the air had quieted, and neither of the two wizards had continued to yell insults at each other, Luna had just smiled at them for a moment. It was an off-kilter smile, slightly crooked and just about bursting with the dreaminess that she had always been famous for. Wide, almost-translucent blue eyes stared up at them, glittering with amusement and just a hint of the infamous Lovegood madness.

"Are you two done?"

And, just like that, they were. They had shaken hands, parted with a "See you around, ferret," and a "You better believe it, Scarhead," and that was that. About two weeks later, the potions, which could identify anyone no matter what concealment they might be using, were born. They were revolutionary in their design and purpose–with a single spell, any magi wearing a dab of the potion could be identified, regardless of Imperius, Metamorph abilities, or Polyjuice potion. Luna had, for whatever reason, insisted that Harry put his on his scar, claiming that most of his identity stemmed from that area.

Harry had not been pleased.

He rubbed his forehead again as the magic in his scar prickled once more in response to the wards of the room activating and shutting down. Harry suppressed the urge to whimper. This was a sign, he knew. In a few seconds, Luna would enter that door, and then today's research (torture, some treacherous part of his brain murmured) would begin. Echoing footsteps approached from the hall outside. Harry cringed before bringing up a blank mask. He knew what that sound meant.

The cavalry was approaching.

With a bang, the heavy doors flew open, letting swirling gusts of wind into the room and nearly knocking Harry off of his feet. He righted himself after a few seconds of frantically stumbling around, using his arms to steady himself on the table. Slowly, he looked up with wild eyes at the five people who had just flooded the room.

Cho Chang, still as utterly radiant as ever, stood proudly, head tilted upwards and feet spread in a stance of arrogant confidence. Her long, usually straight hair floated and twirled around her, a dark mass that sent strands slithering over her shoulders and cascading down her back. Her mouth was pursed as if she had smelled something unpleasant. Next to her, the diminutive Dennis Creevey was hunched protectively over a tray of sparkling potion vials colored in all hues of the rainbow. Ernie McMillan and Seamus Finnigan stood next to them. Ernie was looking around the room, lips curled into a sneer every bit as potent as the late Snape's had been. Seamus stood with his eyes lowered, arms folded over his chest, seemingly unwilling to look at Harry. He got the feeling that Seamus wanted to be here just as much as Harry did. That is to say, not at all.

And, standing proudly in the center position, the point of the V shape the group had unconsciously formed, stood Luna Lovegood.

The previously meek girl was now, by anyone's standards, a woman. She was resplendent in her pearly gray robes as they swirled around her, lifting and tossing to cover her form as the wind tugged and pulled at it. Her hair, the color of pale flax in sunlight, cascaded down her back in loose, messy curls. Crystal eyes glimmered with determination and something edging on madness, and the pink lilt of her lips suggested amusement and anticipation. Luna suddenly raised one pale hand, and the furious winds stopped as soon as they had come. She ran an appraising glance over Harry.

"Are you ready to begin?" she said, and her voice was as dreamy as ever.

Oh, why yes, yes, hello to you, too, Luna dear. How are you? Good? Good! Oh yeah, me, well, I'm doing just great, about to get sliced open in the name of magical science, which is apparently a thing nowadays, so you know what, yeah, I'm doing just Bloody Fantastic, thanks for asking, Luna. Nice chat.

Harry nodded and smiled.

Luna had become much more brisk and focused than ever once the war had ended. Harry had really only seen this determined, slightly sadistic side of her once she had begun to "work" on him. She seemed like her good old self almost any other time, though. Harry stopped at that thought. Wait a second...

"Excellent, Harry, excellent!" she clapped her hands together, and Seamus immediately rushed forward to "help" (i.e. force) Harry onto the metal table. Firmly ignoring the cold that was threatening to overtake any part of him touching the freezing operating table, Harry allowed himself to be tied down. His wrists and ankles were both spread out in order to give unimpeded access to his general chest area. The shackles encircling his hands and feet were stretched to the point where Harry felt like he was about to be quartered. There was a small chink as Seamus murmured the spell that turned the leather cuffs into hard, unyielding metal bands. Harry hissed as the ring of metal tightened around his wrists. They were bound so tightly that Harry feared the shackles might cut off his circulation.

Once Seamus was done, he stepped back, eyes still lowered sadly to the floor. Was that...was Seamus feeling guilty? Why would he feel guilty about his doing his job? Something didn't seem right to Harry with this whole situation. Luna was acting entirely out of character, Seamus evidently wasn't comfortable with Harry's 'procedures', Dennis was as terrified as a mouse (the poor kid), and Cho...well, Cho and Ernie were normal, actually. Cho had not been his biggest fan since their mutually disastrous relationship, and Ernie had disliked him ever since second year. So, those two were acting fairly reassuring, at least.

Ernie stepped forward next. He and Luna exchanged a look that Harry couldn't make out from his spot on the table. Ernie turned to give him a positively wicked grin that made Harry gulp in fear. He brought his wand out of his cloak and waved it around, muttering spells under his breath as he paced around Harry's table. He erected wards that Harry easily recognized. Bill had taught Ron, Hermione, and himself extensively about wards during the time that they had stayed with him in Shell Cottage. One to prevent sounds from leaving the room, one to clean and disinfect the area inside of the ward (Harry's skin prickled as every bit of dirt was stripped from his person), and, finally, a Petrificus Toatalus to keep Harry still during the "procedure". Dennis stood in the back, shaking, as he documented the whole thing. The small click of the camera echoed around the stone chamber.

Finally, Cho glided over to the cabinets and pulled out a huge tray laden with stringy specimens of herbs, a few murky potions vials, and a small fortune's worth of silver in the form of sharp medical instruments, wickedly sharp knives, and miniscule pins and pliers. She carried the tray over to the small table next to Harry's head and passed around a box of dragonhide gloves, bar Dennis, to the assembled people in the room. Harry would have winced if he could have. He watched as Luna pulled on her gloves. A flash of dark purple on her wrist startled him out of his fear.

Dark purple. The potion...Harry's eyes widened. If Luna's specialty potion was a dark color, most similar to eggplant, then that meant that the user had been using something more serious than scar-hiding glamours (because really, everyone that had been in in the war had been using those) to conceal themselves. Harry watched carefully for the spot, which was barely visible beneath the edge of her medical gloves. Luna reached down to straighten her robes. Harry caught another fleeting glance. The spot was edged with a murky sheen of dark green, forming a ring around the center of the potion residue. Harry's breath hitched for a second.

Oh. My. Merlin.

Polyjuice.

That green, that green, that meant Polyjuice Potion.

The person in front of him, about to cut open his chest and operate on him, was most definitely not Luna Lovegood.

Damnit.


	6. And So the End Continues

Harry Potter _may_ or _may not_ have been panicking.

But only _slightly,_ just a _little_ bit.

_Alright, Potter, get it together, you've faced down Lord Snakeface himself, you can handle this._

_Voldemort didn't use scalpels, though._

Harry's rather pessimistic side seemed to pause, considering.

_Or needles. Thank God Voldemort never used needles._

_That would have sucked_ **so** _bad._

His rational side, never one to miss a mental party (although suspiciously absent during any major life choices) added in its two cents, which mainly consisted of, _Focus, Potter, or you're going to die for a third bloody time. And your last moments would be spent on an operating table._

 _Although,_ he mused, _that would certainly make an interesting_ Daily Prophet _article. Boy-Who-Lived meets Death-By-Needles._

Yeah, no, that wasn't going to happen.

Harry started running over options in his mind, mentally evaluating all of the possible escape routes available to him.

There was a depressingly low amount of options for someone who was magically handicapped, tightly restrained, and under heavy guard of several capable, most-likely-hostile, witches and wizards.

Harry risked another glance at Luna, his eyes shielded by the dark mop of fringe perpetually falling into his face.

Luna, who was still fussing over her clothes, tugging this edge here and smoothing over that fold of fabric there, had begun to hum what sounded like an off-key rendition of "Teenage Dream." Harry frowned at that. Luna absolutely hated humming in the workplace. She loathed it with the fiery passion of fiendfyre. "If you're going to sing," she had told them, "Never hum. Humming is the human equivalent of the yowl of a Linkolus; it's annoying as hell and can kill you when it spits acid at you." She had stared down her employees, daring them to ask her what a Linkolus was. Or possibly remind her that " _Luna, I don't think wizards spit poison._

No one had said anything.

"Okay then," she'd chirped, clapping her hands together and twirling in place, "Moving on to Rule Number Two: Don't, like, kill each other, I guess. And also, don't tell anyone about our super-secret Unspeakable projects. No one–and I mean no one–" she hissed the last two words with a cold fury, "Can know about our annual slumber parties and karaoke nights."

That was pretty much the entire Unspeakable Orientation.

_Right, Potter, shutup, whatever. Focus, damnit. How the hell did you never notice her humming before?_

Harry shook his head to clear it, slightly jangling the clinking chains of his restraints. He froze at the sudden sound, glancing furtively around at the room's other occupants. Cho and Ernie were bent over the various herbs and potions, Cho carefully wrapping her hair into an elegant bun on the top of her poised head, while Ernie was examining the various toxic-looking potions with a manic eye-glint that Harry was not appreciating. Seamus stood in the far corner, pointedly looking at everything in the room but Harry. He leaned back against the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets as he gave out a deep sigh. Harry rolled his eyes– _he thinks_ this _is bad?–_ while Dennis was hunched over the impressive collection of fine surgical tools, mechanically cleaning the gleaming surface of each instrument.

_Hold, swipe, rub, repeat. Hold, swipe, rub, repeat._

Harry watched Dennis, hypnotized by the boy's smooth, consistent cleaning of the bits.

_Potter._

So elegant…

_Wizard-God-fricking-damn-it, Harry James Potter, you are about to effing die._

Was it sad how often in his life he had those words? Probably. He gave a mental shrug. Oh well.

A quiet _thunk_ finally brought Harry out of his frantic stupor. Harry glanced over to the source of the sound, turning his head to the far wall as he did so. Seamus had apparently gotten antsy again and had started tapping his foot on the wall behind him. The steel tip of his Muggle boot had wandered over to strike the sole patch of wood in the entire room.

The weird door.

Harry smiled.

 _Well–that's gotta be at least the_ start _of some kind of plan._

Luna snapped her gloves for a final time, the elastic stretching and bouncing to _thwack_ against her bare skin as the potion's mark disappeared from view.

"Alright then, Harry. Are you ready?"

Harry shook his head violently, whipping it back and forth. No, he most certainly NOT ready to die.

"Oh, Harry," Luna giggled with a little, lilting half-smile, "You know that I'll always have your back." She turned to Cho, who handed her a tiny, sinister-looking, silver-tipped...thingy.

 _Huh,_ Harry relaxed, a relieved smile seizing his features. _That one doesn't look two bad._

Luna trailed her finger along its side and the blade suddenly expanded to twice its size.

_**Damnit.** _

She turned back to Harry, tucking a stray piece of flyaway hair behind one dainty ear. She was still smiling, beaming almost, at him.

"Just trust me that I'll always know what's best for you, okay?"

Harry froze the instant the words left her mouth.

" _I'll always have your back, Harry," Hermione was still smiling, "Just trust me that I'll always know what's best for you, okay?"_

_No._

_NO._

_**NO.** _

_**It can't be.** _

_**Luna Lovegood.** _

_**Hermione Granger.** _

_**Does. Not. Compute.** _

He couldn't breathe all of a sudden, as if the very air had been stolen from his lungs.

_**This is NOT happening. Not now. Not after everything else we've been through.** _

_No._

_Not her. Not_ _**her,** _ _of all people._

_**Not. My. Hermione.** _

His one friend, the one that had stood by him through it all. Through Voldemort, through Hogwarts, through Ron's disappearing act. She was the one person that he could ever trust, the one person, his one close friend that had never abandoned him. She was his sister.

She was his family.

She was betraying him.

She was about to _cut him open_ and _examine his insides._ She was about to _slash_ into his skin, _tear_ through his muscle, _search his entire being_ to find out why he had turned mute exactly seventeen days after his defeat of Voldemort or, more probably, seventeen days after he had unwittingly reunited the hallows.

_She was about to kill him._

Maybe not literally, but Harry _knew_ Hermione, better than Ron knew her, even. He _knew_ how vehemently she hated the isolation and constant loneliness she had felt in the Muggle world. He _knew_ what that felt like. He _knew_ what it was to discover that he wasn't some freak, some mistake of nature. They _knew_ the joy of the magic world, the pure ecstasy of finally being accepted as one, as normal, or even more than normal, of being extraordinary in this strange universe where _magic–real, honest-to-God MAGIC–_ was considered ordinary. And Harry _knew_ that Hermione would do anything to keep her title, to prove that she could still evolve into more, that she had earned her status as the brightest witch of her age, that she could show that she was more than "just one of Harry Potter's best friends."

Harry knew that she was desperate.

Harry knew how far she would go to solve this mystery, his mystery. And the problem was, she knew her limits, but she was determined to pass them.

Harry was a problem.

And Hermione solved problems.

Luna and the others were still transfixed with the equipment while Harry had been having his mini-crisis. He thought he saw Seamus glance at him out of the corner of his eye.

_Ok, Harry. Focus._

First things first. He needed a wand. At the moment, he couldn't even say the incantations, much less perform any wand movements while he was so securely restrained. That left accidental magic, which was not something that could be depended on.

In short, Harry Potter was totally, utterly, completely screwed.


	7. Once More With FEELING

In all honesty, Harry Potter was _really_ tired of almost-dying.

Like sure, it sounds all cool and exciting or whatever, and you're going right up against the bad guy, and you keep waiting for something totally badass to happen, to be proven a hero, but then _that never actually happens_ and you're left with .

You're scared.

Plain and simple.

You're absolutely horrified, and your brain will do either one of two things: fritz out and completely shut down, or go absolutely haywire and scramble for a solution. Harry Potter was normally one of the lucky ones, whose mind would whir and buzz and search for solutions until his very last breath.

But not now.

Not today.

Not when his enemy ( _No, that's Luna, or possibly Hermione, shit, they're not enemies, DON'T CALL THEM THAT)_ was wearing the face of a trusted ally and wielding the mind of his sister. He couldn't hurt them, no matter what they were planning to do to him. They were his friends.

_They were his family._

Harry's brain had frozen. Luna (or Hermione?) was still inspecting the mystical three-pronged blade with a very un-Luna-like glint in her pale eyes. Harry swallowed. He had never seen such a deep look of concentration on Luna's face before. It just looked...wrong. Luna was excited. Luna was happy. Luna was fidgety and serene and distant and more than just a little bit odd.

Luna was a whirlwind.

The being standing in front of Harry, trailing her fingers along the wicked blade meant for him, was no whirlwind. She was calculated, cool, precise in her movements and deliberate in her gestures.

This was lightning.

 _Hermione_ was lightning. Quick and smooth, jagged and striking.

_Nope, Potter, you are not gonna cry. That is not happening._

His sister...his best friend...the girl he loved, the only person that had ever stood by him for everything in his life, the scared and lonely girl longing for acceptance, desperate to be more than her peers' opinions for her. She was determined to do great things, she was heralded as the brightest witch of her age. That fierce intelligence made her spark, made her a force of nature, a fire that warmed and saved and rampaged and destroyed.

And Harry was about to burn under her grasp.

_Ok, Harry. Think._

The door. The weird door, the one with the markings. That had to lead to _something,_ right? Maybe like a workroom or an exit of sorts? He'd take either one of them, right now.

Dennis was still busily cleaning his instruments, hunched over and inspecting them for any unclean marks or suspicious stains with a surgeon's precision. He carefully ran his fingers over each and every crevice in the tools, squinting at any offending marks with narrow eyes. Harry couldn't but notice that the boy's hands were shaking, trembling ever-so-slightly as they swiped and inspected and cleaned the blades. Harry, still held under the firm grasp of the _Petrificus,_ strained to see Dennis as the blond teen cried out and dropped what Harry assumed was a scalpel onto the stone floors. The small instrument clattered to the ground, making far too much noise for such a small tool, as Dennis whimpered and stared at his hands. Seamus twitched, lifting his foot off the door and hesitating slightly as he watched Dennis with weary eyes. Luna/Hermione sent a glare his way, and Seamus melted back into the stonework, a frown creasing his mouth.

"Dennis," Luna said, placing her weird and painful-looking blade onto the side table and rushing to Dennis's side. "Are you okay? Do you need a break?" Worried eyes searched Dennis's face, hunting for any other sign of the boy's discomfort.

"It's okay, Miss Lovegood. I'm okay, I'm, um, it's...I'm alright." He sucked in a deep breath, trying and failing for a light tone of voice. "My nerves just aren't what they used to be after the Carrows." He gave an utterly unconvincing breathy laugh at the end.

Harry grit his teeth.

These people may be working on how to dissect him in the most painful way possible, but they were still just people. They were damaged people, people who were left broken and with missing parts after the war. Dennis had lost some of his muscle control after the Carrows' cruel "detentions" and still experienced the occasional spasm. Cho was missing a few fingers. Seamus still sported a slight limp. Ernie had a new scar on his right temple where he had been clipped with a cutting curse. Hermione had become more driven, more focused, more single-minded than ever. Luna was more reckless.

Harry was just a little bit more broken. In all ways.

But that little exchange, seeing Luna/Hermione caring for Dennis mere minutes ago, just those few little moments, was enough to remind Harry that Hermione was still Hermione. She was still the girl that had danced with him on the lonely days of their horcrux hunt, the girl that had kept him alive and whole and sane for the past eight years.

She was Hermione.

He was Harry.

They went together. They were a different level of friends. They had trust. They were simple.

Or, at least, they had been.

Harry forced himself out of his brief reverie, and re-considered Dennis's slumped form. It would be easy to take him out in a physical fight. Harry was still relatively short and scrawny, but had used some of his time after the war trying to push his body out of its malnourished and stick-like form. He had a certain physical power in his arsenal now, although it would be nothing against the competent wand-wielders circling the room. Harry's eyes traversed the room before landing on Cho. Okay, she was the second-highest threat in the room. She had been an excellent dueller in her DA days, and she had to be even better now. Hermione would be terrible to face and pretty much impossible to beat while Harry was still wandless. Ernie...Harry honestly didn't know enough about the wizard to assign him a threat level. Seamus...Harry squinted as much as he could, trying to find Seamus. He wasn't by the door anymore. Instead, he stood behind Luna, who had returned to Harry's bedside after comforting Dennis. Luna, sharp object in hand once more, must have finally deemed the tool suitable for her task. She stepped forward, leaning over Harry with a shark-toothed smile.

"Are you ready to start, Harry? Hopefully, we'll have some answers after this." Her eyes hardened at the prospect of newfound knowledge.

Harry shuddered as he felt a wave of magic pass through him, releasing him from the effects of the _Petrificus._

_Thank God. That's gotta be some sort of progress, right there._

_Now, I've just gotta escape these straps, escape these dudes, escape this room, escape this building, AND escape Hermione's eventual wrath and confront her about this whole Hell-thing._

_Alright, I've been in worse situations before._

_...Can't really think of one right now, though. Eh, whatevs._

And Harry looked up at the knife-wielding witch, smiled, and nodded.

"Cho," Luna called, smiling, "Can you start with the lotions?"

Cho nodded serenely, practically gliding over the cobbled floor to the medicine cabinet. Nimble fingers opened the door and pulled out two familiar bottles of Dreamless Sleep and PotentPadmaPatilPainPotion™. Harry had to hide a smirk as he watched Ernie's eyes hungrily devour Cho's almost ethereal beauty as she uncorked the PainPotion in one smooth gesture. One dainty finger swiped the ointment up. An instant later, Harry felt his shirt being tugged up. He tilted his chin back, squinting through his hair as Cho leaned over him, a smirk tugging at her lips.

" _Mmm_ , now, _Harry_ ," she murmured, eyes half-lowered, voice a distinctive purr, "This brings back some memories from fifth year, now, doesn't it?"

Harry felt his mouth dry up, and he turned his head away, a frown tugging at his mouth as Cho gave continued spreading the oil over his scrawny chest. _No,_ he thought. A _ctually, this is one hell of a lot different from Fifth year._ Ok.

Ok.

This is not OK.

This whole...thing, this whole setup, was just _so freaking far_ from his idea of ok that it was not even funny. Here was Cho Chang, literally his _only_ ex, buttering him up for the slaughter and trying out some really twisted flirting while she did so. This was different from the other times. Before, she had stood back, cold and calculating, all hard smiles and shiny hair. _Before,_ she was a pretty face and a wicked mind. _Before,_ she hadn't seemed to care.

There weren't many _befores_ for Harry to reference, though. This would be his fourth "session" with Luna and her assistants since the end of the war. Each visit would be around a month apart, leaving him four weeks of in-between time to catch his breath. Literally, sometimes–the operations always focused on the area around his chest, and the magically-bound stitches would strain against his chest and make breathing difficult. The stitches hurt like hell, too, but Harry had a body built for abuse and a pain tolerance that was off the charts. The scars that they left, though, couldn't be eradicated with magic. Only potions, creams, and some kinds of illusions did that. Scars, he had found, were one thing that everyone left behind. They were markers, timeposts, badges and banners screaming that _I was here and I did something._ Harry hated his scars. One of them more than the others, obviously. The one that marked him as an equal, the one that labelled him as something _different._ The one that was currently making him the subject of invasive tests and newspaper articles alike.

Harry still wasn't sure what these tests had proven yet. He knew why he had started them, and he knew why he had continued. He had started for reason. He kept going for love.

He had trusted her. He had trusted her with his life, with his head, with his heart, with his wand, with their future. And now, she was doing...this.

Cho was still running her fingers up and down his chest, twirling the cream onto his skin and smacking her lips before dancing her digits up and down his front. The ointment had started to prickle against his skin. Harry was, again, _so not okay with this_. It really needed to be said twice. Harry just felt weird. He was cold. The cream was cold. Her fingers were cold. The table was cold.

Her eyes were cold.

Doing his best to ignore Cho, Harry looked around the room again. Luna and Ernie had split off suddenly and were talking quietly in the corner. Ok. Well, that was odd. They had like just been about to cut Harry open. What had changed? Ok. Ok, focus. Dennis. Dennis, Dennis….was still polishing those damn tools. Okay though, really? Like, Harry knew that there were a ton of them, but he didn't realize that there had been _that_ many. Ok. Ok. Anyways, that was Dennis. Ernie had made his way to the original entrance of the the room and was...just standing? Standing guard, maybe? Ok. Well, that was also different. Before, only Seamus had stood by the far door. Now there were both of them. Well. That couldn't be good. There were either two purposes for the extra sentry. They were either trying to keep something really dangerous out, or keep something really dangerous in.

Harry had the sneaking suspicion that it was the latter.

His chest was totally numb now. He couldn't even register Cho's fingers still traversing his naked chest. And God, did that phrasing– _traversing his naked flesh_ –sound bad. Harry had never, and would never, be a writer. That was for sure.

_If I make it out of here, I swear to God, I'll do something crazy. I'll...publish a book. Yeah. Books. About...the wizworld? Magi? Puffskeins?_

_My life? But who'd want to read that?_

_Anyways, I was doing something. Something big, something important, something required–right, yes, scouting. For an escape route. So I can, like, live and stuff._

He didn't think that Hermione would kill him. Well. Not on purpose, at least. She just like to push things. People, studies, the laws of nature, things. She was just getting dangerously near to shoving them both off a ledge Harry didn't think they'd be able to come back from.

But back to scanning. Seamus. Seamus. Seamus, Seamus, Seamus, _Seamus…._

_Where are you?_

And then, someone plucked the sun from its celestial hangings and squeezed it into the room.

An explosion, as bright and big and loud as a firestorm or a firecracker or imploding stars, and the room shook. And the world trembled and Harry rattled and Luna and the others shook, were left swinging and reeling with the force of it, awash in its intensity and still echoing in its brashness. And then all was still.

And all was dark, and all was still.


	8. When General Zodd Met The Savior

**Just a quick heads up for y'all...**

_"This is mirror speak, or the language used when communicating with the modified two-way mirror."_

_*This is sign language.*_

**_And this is a line break. Hope you enjoy. Hopefully this chapter answers some questions, and sorry about my absence lately. Things are getting crazy. It's college app and IB season, so I'm screwed on a lot of things. So of course I thought I'd write fanfiction instead of doing any actual work, so you're welcome. ;)_ ** _Anyways, pretty pretty please leave a review_ _** and I'll love you forever. ** _

* * *

 

Sue Sylvester was on the warpath.

Granted, there were very few times in Sue's life when she _hadn't_ been on a warpath of some sort. Sylvester liked the warpath, she _lived_ on it, so it was really just another day of infamy for the Cheerio's supreme ruler. Sylvester ruled with her own brand of insane chaos, and she was a master at subterfuge, a spy and advocate for the forces of chaos. And if she was being honest, she could totally admit that she was one hell of a soldier. Or maybe a general. Or screw it, Sue Sylvester was the goddamn _Emperor_ , and she made sure that all the scum at this lowly cesspool of a school knew it.

"Watch it, babycakes, or I've got a free coupon for an experimental vasectomy with your name on it." Sue shoved some Freshie into the lockers lining the hallway, just for the heck of it. She had been having a rather rough time lately. And by " _lately",_ she meant "ever since that damnable Schuester had taken his coiffed and oiled-up, grease-monkey-infested hair and formed a glee club filled with all the dredges and washed-up losers of what passed for society at McKinley".

Anyways.

That Glee club was the bane of her existence. Sure, it seemed all innocent and lovely on the outside, but the core itself was absolutely rotten, like the seven-year-old candy she had left for Will and his students that one time last year.

God, the projectile vomiting had been music to her ears.

Sue continued to prowl the corridors of McKinley, searching the halls for the next victim of her ire. _Somebody_ (Becky) had forgotten _someone's_ (Sue Sylvester, monarch supreme _and don't you forget it_ ) packs of protein powder. Sue had recently set herself on a strict dieting regiment of rocks, falcon eggs, and protein powder as a test run for her Cheerios. If she could stomach it for two weeks, then her girls and assorted gay bases could handle it for the next year or two. But now, she didn't have her protein packs. And _someone_ would have to pay. Finally, Sue the lioness spotted her favorite high-school gazelle.

"PORCELAIN!" She bellowed, sharp eyes locking onto the rather delicate-looking teen. He was standing by his locker, clad in one of his signature outrageous outfits, one hand on his hips and one fingering his locker door. He looked up, startled at her call, and Sue relished in the bright fear he held in those pale eyes. She smirked at him, sauntering up to his locker and leaning against the hideous wall of lockers to face him.

"So, how we doin' today, Ladyface?" She asked casually, examining her blood-red nails with a feigned nonchalance. "How're all the gleeks doing so far? Wait, you know what," Sue licked her finger and held it in the air before sniffing it, "Never mind, I can smell the intoxicating scents of ultimate loserdom and the tears of young children from here. Funny enough, it all seems to be coming from the choir room, what a surprise. Well, that answers my question, then. Good day to you, you flamboyant little flowerpot of rainbows and glitter-puke." Sue pushed herself off of the lockers, ignoring Hummel's indignant cries of "Hey!" as she stalked away.

Sue continued her patrol, shouting at random students that she passed just for the glorious hell of it. She was almost at her her office corner when she finally saw it. Or rather, _him_.

He had on a dark sweatshirt with his hood pulled up to hide his face. His legs were clothed in black denim, and he was stuffing books and papers into a satchel with an unfamiliar symbol on the side.

But the most important thing was that _Sue didn't recognize him_. She made a point of memorizing every new student's profile, to know their name, their physical build, and their interests. Doing so gave her an unrivaled advantage when tearing the 'undesirables' down and sorting out the ranks of her beloved Cheerios. And yet, despite not being able to see the kid's face, she just _knew_ that he was a new variable at McKinley. He was an unknown, an unregistered anomaly in a world where Sue ruled over the school's pockets of losers with an iron fist. And having a nameless rebel amid her drones simply wouldn't do.

"Hey there, short stuff," Sue began with her trademark smirk, "Don't think I've seen you around these parts yet." She watched the boy closely as he jumped slightly at her voice. He spun around, and Sue could just make out some sort of scar hiding under an utter mess of jet-black hair that spilled onto his forehead. He had the brightest eyes that Sue had ever seen on a human being, and they were the exact shade of poisonous green that would make any emeralds jealous.

It was totally unnatural. And creepy. The kid looked uneasy, and Sue could hear his feet shifting on the rough linoleum of the school tiles. So she stared at him some more, hoping to intimidate him with her patented Stare of Death. To her surprise, he held her stare, his gaze piercing as he maintained his unflinching eye contact. Ok, well, this was just getting weird now. Finally, he took a step back and held out his hand with a small smile on his face. Sue stared at the offending limb.

"I _will not_ shake your hand!" She screeched, slapping the offered appendage away. He blinked, once, twice, and then cocked his head and slung his satchel onto his other shoulder. He brought his hand up to his forehead, with his thumb touching the center of his palm. He jerked his arm out from the elbow and lay his hand at his side, still smiling.

Sue stared at the new kid for a few moments, but in open-mouthed shock this time. She knew that gesture, she had used it enough times with her sister to know it by heart by now.

_*Hello.*_

When Sue didn't react to the sign language, the boy sighed, shoulders slumping and staring at the ground.

"Are you deaf?" Sue glared at the kid. He raised and shook his head in the universal sign for "no." He pointed at the base of his throat and drew a hand across his neck.

"So you poor sucker can't talk then, is that it?" The kid brightened and nodded. "Well, thank God for that then, I don't have to worry about you joining up with Hobbit and Juggerson McGee and Asians one through two and the rest of that merry band of gleek-ulous losers."

The boy looked confused for a few seconds before shrugging again and making a few more hand gestures.

_*Hello. My name is H-A-R-R-Y and I'm new here. Who are you?*_

"Sue Sylvester, head coach of the Cheerios and your worst nightmare if you _ever even dare_ to cross me."

Harry smiled. He decided that he _liked_ this woman, despite his better judgement and her odd choice of dress. _I mean, a bright red tracksuit, really?_ But really, he just loved the fact that good ol' Snape seemed to have somehow been reincarnated into the body of a female Cheer coach. It was almost fitting, really, that he should meet up with him again so soon.

Sue gave him one last hard glare before whirling around and sauntering back down the hallway, throwing an offhanded, "Watch it, you Ariel knock-off. I got my eye on you, newbie, just like every other godforsaken person stuck in this hellpit someone decided to call a school. I'll see you around."

Harry sent a curious but amused glance at the retreating back of the notorious Sue Sylvester. He shoved the last of his folders into his bag and closed his locker just as the lunch bell rang. Harry looked around the rapidly-filling hall. He had just gotten his schedule halfway through the morning periods and had helped that one girl pick up all of her papers stuff before hearing to his locker. It had taken him about twenty tries to learn how to open and close the damn thing. Harry frowned as his pocket started whispering to him.

" _Harry! Psst! Harry Potter!"_

Harry clutched his bag and ducked into the nearest bathroom that he could find. He frantically dug his mirror out of his jeans and held it up to his face, only to see Luna's scowling profile staring back at him.

" _I swear to the nargles, Harry James Potter, I am going to frickin'_ skin _you when I see you again."_

Harry winced at the blonde's glare. The mirror's view shifted around a bit and suddenly Harry was looking at Luna's proudly-raised middle finger.

" _Look at this , Harry. JUST LOOK at what you made Dennis teach me. Look at the lengths you've driven me to, just so I can flip you off from an entire continent away. You seriously didn't recognize that Hermione was,"_ Luna framed the next word in air quotation marks, " _COSPLAYING as me? What the Hufflepuff, Harry? I'm rather insulted. Was she even wearing my earrings? Of course not! Did she ever use the code phrase I made for all Unspeakable operations?"_

Harry shrugged and offered a rather sheepish smile in response.

* _Luna, you made the code word 'Hello.' Everyone uses the word hello. That one's all on you.*_

" _Oh no, don't you blame me, Potter,"_ Luna easily read his fluttering hand, " _Pin that one on Adele and that stupid Book of Mormon song, not me. It's not my fault every damn artist uses 'Hello' nowadays."_

_*Sorry.*_

" _Oh shut up, we both know you're not, you Insufferable One."_ Her face softened. " _Anyways, I'm glad you made it out okay. Obviously, Seamus's plan worked?"_

 _*Yup. Like a charm, which is literally the instance in this case. The twi–_ George's ' _Starburst' candies did the trick. An excellent distraction, and we were out of there. What–*_ Harry's signing faltered for a moment, before ploughing on to spell out the difficult name. * _What's happening with H-E-R-M-I-O-N-E?*_

" _That's what I called about. Well, that and just making sure that you managed to apparate your sorry ass to the right spot. And stop signing so damn fast, not all of us have the privilege of learning new languages overnight via goddamned pensieves. Anyways, they're holding Hermione 'till the authorities can fully figure out what happened. By the way, Seamus wanted me to congratulate you on your wandless stunner, he said it was, and I quote, 'Bloody feckin' brilliant' and 'supermegafoxyawesomehot.' No clue what the Morgana that means, but he wanted you to know. Anyways, have you met up with my contact so far?"_

_*No. Haven't seen her yet.*_

" _Well, then go and bloody_ find _her, Potter, you're seriously useless. And make some damn friends, join up with some clubs. The more people you meet up with, the more you can learn from them, and it'll be way easier to fit in. Just stay low, Potter, and keep your head down. Don't just not go looking for trouble, I want you to actively hide from it. And shut up right now, because I know that you're about to say something along the lines of how it's' not your fault that trouble finds you' so just keep that bull to yourself, okay? We clear on that, Harry?"_

Harry sent a mock salute back through the connection, his hand sporting its own erect middle finger.

_*Yes, Ma'am, I read you loud and clear.*_

" _Damn straight you do."_ And really, he should never have taught Luna how to use muggle profanities, she was clearly abusing her new knowledge. " _Now get out of the goddamned bathroom, you'll either look like a creep or a loser or, God forbid, a pedophile. Oh, and before you go,"_ The mirror suddenly tilted to show the stone ceiling of Luna's office. Harry could hear footsteps in the distance, and was barely able to make out the various screams and shouts that basically acted as white noise in the new Department of Mysteries. Suddenly, Luna was back with a _very_ familiar piece of parchment. " _Here you are,"_ she said cheerfully, " _we've been working on this feature of the mirror for a bit now, and I think you're gonna love it."_ Luna grabbed the creased piece of paper and pressed it up against the glass. Harry heard her mutter a few words, and suddenly, the surface of the mirror began to ripple as a corner of the parchment broke through the glass on Harry's side. Harry simply stared at it, slack-jawed with disbelief and awe. He cautiously pinched on a corner and pulled the folded mess through the mirror until it was all the way and on his side of reality instead of Luna's.

" _Isn't it cool?"_ Luna asked, beaming. " _We also modified the map just a_ teensy-weensy _bit to help you out over there. To see Hogwarts and her occupants, just use the old Marauder's password. Or, in your case, tap it with your wand three times, since it'll recognize you. To see McKinley's people and hallways, just tap it once and trace, 'Potter Stinks,' on any blank page."_

Harry glared at her.

" _Now don't you give me that look, mister, I'll have you know that we couldn't have done this without Draco, so wipe that pout off your mouth. I swear to Wizard God, you both have to get over this ridiculous rivalry. Anyways, I gotta go, some idiots are testing fiendfyre without me and that shit is like the coolest to watch. See yah, Harry. Have fun, and I love you. We're all gonna miss you over here, so don't let those Yanks get you too down. I'll talk to you later, okay?"_

Harry and Luna smiled at each other. _*I love you too, sister mine.*_

" _See your sorry mug soon, brother dear."_

Luna's mirror went dark as Harry shoved his own half back into his pocket and leaned over the bathroom sink. Keeping his head down. He could do that, right? Learn to keep his head down, and not to act on his instincts?

He could make friends, couldn't he? Real ones, that did all of the things that wizards didn't. Friends that played for more than just one sport, did more than just one thing. Friends who could push him and love Harry without loving the Boy-Who-Lived, without worshipping the Savior.

For the first time in his entire life, Harry had a choice. Harry had the option, the ability, to make his own way, to try his own things. He could be his own person.

 _I can be me,_ Harry thought, and his reflection beamed back at him in the muggle bathroom mirror. He could do this. He _would_ do this. Rejuvenated after his mini pep-talk, Harry turned on his heel and strode out of the bathroom, whipping the door back to back against the wall. The hall was so filled with people now that barely anyone even glanced over at him or his echoing exit. Harry felt like a new person. He was free of all of his old titles, free of the stares and the echoing whispers that had haunted him in the Wizarding World.

And all he had to do to keep it that way was lay low.

"Heya, freak!"

Harry whipped around at the deep voice, eyes blazing with anger before he realized that the insult hadn't been meant for him. Instead, it seemed to be aimed towards the pale boy that Sylvester had been harassing earlier. Harry struggled to recall the boy's real name, as he sincerely doubted that this kid's parents had written down 'Ladyface' or 'Porcelain' (or whatever Sue had called him) on his birth certificate.

The guy was clearly not physically prepared to take on the red-coated bully by himself. _Jesus,_ thought Harry, _that dude is huge._ And he had brought backup. Suddenly, a throng of red-suited guys had surrounded Hummel ( _yes, that was it, Hummel must be last name then)_ in the blink of an eye. Harry hadn't even seen any of them emerge from the steady stream of students all on their way to the lunchroom.

"You know, _Kurt,"_ Jock #1 sneered, "I don't like you."

"Well, that should be fairly obvious by now, Karofsky," the boy (who was apparently named Kurt, Harry noted) shot back, "I hate to say it, but I'm just not your type. You're meant for someone much less, how do I put this... _fabulous_ than me. Believe me, I'm _way_ out of your league." Kurt's words were practically dripping with sarcasm. Harry knew that this could only end badly. He had to give the kid props for standing up to the hulk of a teen in front of him, though. That took some real guts to do.

Karofsky's face was steadily getting redder and redder as Kurt went on. The assorted crowd of jocks behind him sniggered. A dark-skinned dude with "Adams" scrawled on the back of his jacket guffawed at Kurt's words. "Ain't nobody want your gayness here, Hummel," he said, turning to his comrades, "What do you say we _wash_ it off of him?" Adams held up some sort of plastic cup. Harry saw the red liquid sloshing around inside of it and understood what was about to happen mere moments before anything actually did.

On instinct, Harry slid through the crowd to reach the jocks in the nick of time. He used one hand to roughly shove Kurt out of the way of the incoming slushies while using the other to tilt the offensive beverages back towards their original owners. He used an extra bit of magic to help his hand move faster, until every single ounce of slushy had been forced back onto the offenders. It only took a few seconds, but when it was over, the entire hall was eerily silent. Harry glanced down at the floor, where an awestruck Kurt was staring up at him. He risked a quick look at the fuming mass of jocks, somewhat pleased to note that each was stained and dripping with red syrup. Harry's amusement faded as he saw their faces.

Shit, they were angry, and all built like the Hulk's baby cousins. Harry gave one last smile to Kurt, before turning on his heel and sprinting down the hallway. He didn't know where he was going, but as an epic bellow of rage echoed behind him, he knew two things for sure.

1.) Harry Potter _sucked_ at laying low, and 2.) Luna was going to freaking kill him.


	9. Harry Potter, the Not-Quite-Normal-Ninja

Harry Potter, wizard extraordinaire, savior of a secret society, and recipient of _way_ too many awards, including the Order of Merlin First Class, came skidding around the hallway, his bright red converse scrambling for purchase on the school's cheap linoleum tiles. But Harry hadn't been the top athlete at Hogwarts for nothing, even if his chosen sport didn't require one to be the most physical of people. His sneakers screeched on the floor as he hurried to right his body before continuing his headlong hurtle down the halls of McKinley High, a stampede of angry jocks hot on his trail.

All in all, Harry thought that his first day of High school was going fairly well.

He turned another corner ( _Dear Wizard God, how many frickin' corners did this school even have?),_ hoping beyond hope that he could find some sort of door or exit to hide through. And yet, here he was, stuck on another endless stretch of metal lockers and bland walls. Harry ignored his sinking stomach and just kept running.

"Hey! We're coming for you, you little...you...you _BUTTFACE_!"

Harry almost laughed at Karofsky's rather weak insult, but he needed to save his breath. He could hear the relentless pounding of the charging herd that was chasing his every footstep. For just this once, Harry wished that he had his voice, if only to scream something back at them. _Oh well, I'll just have to settle for the typical American greeting_ , he smirked, hoisting his middle finger above his head and aiming the foul gesture at the rampaging herd of neanderthals at his back. He allowed himself a genuine smile at the answering bellow that bounced off of the lockers whizzing by him.

_Oh damn, here comes another one._

He threw his weight forward as he turned _yet another_ corner, wincing as he slid and spun on his heel, flailing his arms out in a desperate bid for balance. He hopped a bit to recover from his momentum before sprinting down the new, strangely deserted hallway.

And then, he saw it.

His savior.

His _salvation._

Harry's current corridor passed right by a gigantic set of black double doors. He smiled, the grin splitting his face almost in half. _He had an escape route._

If the war had taught Harry anything in terms of strategy, it was that a.) plans are worth absolute shit (especially when Harry was involved with them) and b.) any sort of cover could save your life. An alcove, a hidden corner, an upturned table, a curiously animated gargoyle–if it was solid and offered you some sort of protection, then you were just that much closer to making it out alive. If any sort of shelter, no matter how broken or how close to breaking it might have been, could offer you anything resembling a reprieve, then you took it. You gathered yourself, gave yourself ten seconds to regain your bearings, and then leapt back into the fray without letting yourself think.

Every second was measured in lives. A lost moment could cost hundreds of souls.

That was how Harry had operated, at least. Miniscule breaks mixed with maximum action. That was how he ran, how he had survived, how he had outlasted every single Death Eater bastard that had ever tried to kill him. It was how he had escaped his childhood without any life-threatening injuries from Dudley and Vernon, and now, it was how he outran an angry crowd of slushy-soaked jocks.

 _Eh, Voldemort one day, beefy high-schoolers with more muscles than brains the next_ , Harry thought. _God, I just_ love _my life._

The rumbling red crowd was still scrambling to turn the corner Harry had just come from. He was almost to the doors–those safe, big, beautiful, _moving_ doors.

Harry dug in his heels as hard as he could, cursing the dust-slicked tiles beneath his feet. He skidded for a few more feet just as the doors fully opened, revealing a portly ginger man lugging a stuffed cardboard box under his arm. The dude was muttering under his breath, angrily swiping his hair back from his forehead and adjusting his glasses. Harry, wildly trying to maintain his precarious balance, caught some curses, something that sounded oddly like the phrase ' _Damn Glee kids,'_ and an assortment of vague threats and accusations against a "Mr. Shoe." Harry would be slightly more worried for the man's mental health if he hadn't been about to careen headfirst into the guy. Harry, still skidding towards the doors and the man, was starting to panic. Ginger was totally old enough to be a teacher, and while Harry had no qualms about teaching arrogant bullies a lesson, he still didn't want to get sent back to Figgins' office on his very first day.

God, Luna would be _sooooo_ pissed at him if that happened.

Making a split-second decision, mainly based on the mere fact that Luna's ire could potentially be fatal (it was an untested theory of his, but still, there was no way in hell he was gonna be the guinea pig for that one), Harry bent backwards and lowered his knees the the floor, diving underneath and through the unamused man's spread legs. He had made it, just as the floor rumbled with the footsteps of the passing herd of jocks still after Harry. Harry allowed himself a brief grin, revelling in his victory, until–

" _What the HELL was that?!"_

Oh yeah. That's right. Harry turned around to face the spitting man. He was still holding the enormous box by his side, with the other hand on his waist. His face was turning multiple shades of reds and his eyes were fit to pop out of his skull.

Harry flinched. The guy looked scarily similar to Uncle Vernon when enraged.

" _I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS BULLSHIT!"_

 _Wow, okay, I'm in trouble,_ Harry mentally kissed England goodbye. Luna would never let him back in now. Turns out, she had a scary amount of control over the British government, due to some distant relative of hers named Mike or something (Michael? Or Mycroft, maybe? Harry couldn't really remember all that well–the only thing he knew for certain was that the man had had a peculiar penchant for indimidating black umbrellas). Harry had met him once, after his very awkward ceremony with the Queen of England. He had fallen flat on his face while bowing to her, and Luna had never let him live it down. "Lizzie", though, had been absolutely thrilled, and had laughed so hard Harry had thought she was choking and that he had basically just killed the _Goddamned Queen of England._ She had finally recovered and thanked him for making her smile, despite his many fumbled apologies and absolutely burning face.

"You know what?"

Oh, right, Harry was about to be expelled. Damn sidetracks.

"I'm DONE. I've frickin' had it with all of you kids at this school. I don't know who you are, or what the hell you think you're doing sliding into rooms and UNDER PEOPLE like that, but I don't care. _Not anymore._ Say goodbye to Brad, McKinley. And I hope _you,"_ he spat the word out while glaring at Harry, jabbing him in the chest with one finger, "All rot in musical hell. Next person who tells me to just 'hit it', well, I am going to hit them back, and see how the hell _they_ like it. God, you Gleeks are all the same, running wild and assuming that your entire life is one hugely popular TV show. But _no more_. I. Am. DONE." The man yelled out the last sentence and added a good foot stomp in there, just for kicks, before whirling around and kicking the doors back open. He strode out of the room, screaming in a medley of frustration and rage.

Harry stood stock still until the doors slammed shut again.

_What the HELL was that? Swear to God, everyone in this entire school is frickin' insane._

Harry let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding and surveyed his surroundings. He seemed to be in some kind of theater, with a black-painted stage towards the front and rows and rows of fold-up chairs spreading out from it. Harry grinned.

The place was beautiful, if not a bit run down. Harry, still basking in the sheer relief of not getting in trouble or beaten up by the duped mob, ran down the stairs lining the theater walls and launched himself up onto the stage, making a beeline for the gleaming piano in the center of the floor. He relished the the light warmth of the stage lights on his skin, and lay down on the piano bench, just letting himself relax on the cushioned seat. This was his ten seconds.

Harry closed his eyes, stretching up a hand to run his fingers over the piano's glistening keys.

He was so tired.

Not sleepy, but the type of tired that ached down in your bones, the type of tired that was just a few steps past _exhausted_ and on its way to _not-okay._ Everything in the last week, especially with Hermione, had just happened so fast. He remembered the legions of hands grabbing him, Seamus frantically unbuckling his straps until Harry had fallen onto the dungeon's dank floors, the 'research team' frantically recovering from the burst of light, blinking back stars even as Hermione screeched at them. Harry remembered reaching for her, arm outstretched, eyes begging, asking, screaming _WhyWhyWhy_ over and over again until Seamus had dragged him through the marked door and out into the real, authentic Luna's private office.

He remembered sitting there, stunned with Hermione's thirst for knowledge, which was apparently greater than her initial hunger for friendship, shocked at the real Luna's poisonous anger and the slow realization that Harry was just never _enough_ for anyone.

Harry blinked up at the spotlights, lazily tracking the flights of dust particles as they scattered through the air above him. He sat up.

After his voice had gone out, Harry had been desperate to make noise. He was fading, he had known that ever since the war had ended. Harry Potter was disappearing, but the Savior kept on growing. Harry wasn't himself any longer. He couldn't be heard. He didn't want to be seen. He felt hollow and empty and like _absolute nothing_. In short, Harry was terrified of the silence he had become.

So he learned to make noise. He learned to make himself heard, learned how to give himself a weight and substance that his own silence couldn't take. Harry fought through the oppressive nothing, clawing his way to the surface, until he could finally escape the suffocating quiet that was constantly threatening to strangle him.

He devoured any new instrument that he could get his hands on. He had mastered the piano, the violin, and the guitar during two-month sentence of self-imposed house arrest. When he was younger, the Dursleys had actually gotten him lessons, in a vain effort to make himself, in their words, 'less of a freak, and more of a civilized human.' He was given up as a lost cause two weeks into practice, when Harry had managed to fumble through a piece that Dudley couldn't. An enraged Petunia had declared that he was 'sabotaging her poor Duddlykins' and had banned him from any further lessons. A weeks later, Dudley, in the throes of a tantrum, leapt onto the piano's top and shattered the entire instrument into miniscule splinters.

Harry rested his fingers on the well-worn keys, running his hand up and down the silent piano, caressing the smooth bars. He found middle C and pressed down as the note reverberated around the empty auditorium. He sighed. He flexed his fingers and tested another note with trepidation, and then another, until the entire room was filled with the chipper opening notes of _A Great Big World's "_ Land of Opportunity," singing along in his head.

_I'm sailing away, to a Land of Opportunity._

_The sun will shine, and birds will sing there everyday_

_I'm sailing away, and I hope that you remember me._

_It was fun, we had our run. Hip hip hooray…_

A smile crept onto Harry's face as he really got into the song. It was true, in a way. He _was_ running away. From Hermione, from his fame, from the political tension brewing over in England as his entire world struggled to rebuild itself. They didn't need him. And he could never give them enough. But here, _here_ he was just supposed to be a nobody, an average, everyday, normal teenage kid. He was going to build himself from the ground up. He could be new, he would be cool, he could (theoretically) do _whatever the hell he wanted_ , for the first time in his wretched life. He had no major, history-altering choices to make. He wasn't holding an entire world in his palm anymore. He could walk forward on his own terms, instead of being mindlessly prompted by fear and desperation. Wizarding Society didn't have a leash on him anymore, he wasn't shackled to a destiny of murder. As of right now, no one's life was hanging in the balance, no one was begging him for anything. For once in his life, he had the choice to be nothing. He had the chance to be _normal._

Harry almost snorted as his fingers played on autopilot. _I haven't been normal for a single day in my life._

God, he loved this song.

_I just gotta believe there's something better._

_I just gotta believe there's something more than you and me._

_I've just gotta believe, I've just gotta believe._

_I'm sailing away...to a Land of Opportunity._

Harry finished the last notes to the song and leaned back as they echoed around the theater. This was what calmed him. This was what had saved him from himself a few months ago, and this was what he kept going for. Music. Even if he couldn't sing, he could still play. And, on occasion, dance. Agility training, yet another one of the endless byproducts of the war, had been good for something after all.

Another door slammed open, and Harry practically fell out of his chair in outright shock, before leaping onto his feet and assuming a general defense position. _Harry Potter, you are literally in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio, and that is most definitely_ not _a dark wizard. Calm. Down._ Harry berated himself before shaking his head and relaxing. Harry looked towards the opposite side of the theater, directly across from where he had come in, and stopped, frozen in the spotlight.

A man, around maybe forty or so years old and sporting a spectacularly hideous vest, had just barged into the room. The light glanced off of his oiled and curly hair, and he was staring down at what looked like a packet of sheet music, although Harry couldn't quite tell for sure from this distance or angle. The man just stood there for a few seconds, seemingly absorbed in his documents. Harry took the chance to scramble down off of the stage while the man wasn't looking.

"Yo, Brad," Sweater Vest called out, still not looking up from his pile of paper, "Glee starts in like five minutes, buddy, we need you in the choir room. Let's go."

Harry cocked his head in a question that no one seemed too keen on answering. _Who the Hell was Brad?_

Oh, wait. There was like a 90% chance that the mysterious "Brad" was the same man that had just stormed out of the auditorium around ten minutes or go, cursing Gleeks and threatening shoes. And now, it seemed that Harry had driven out the very guy that Sweater Vest apparently needed for the 'Glee' thing that Harry had heard about all day.

_Whoops._

Harry, never one to sit back when someone needed help, figured that he could at least offer his services for this mysterious 'Glee,' seeing as he was the reason that Brad had quit earlier that day. Although Sweater Vest didn't seem to know that yet.

"Come _on,_ Brad, the kids are waiting, and you won't believe it but I found another 90's song that I can rap with. Dang, I'm the coolest." Harry shot a questioning look at the guy, whose eyes were still glued to his paperwork. Because no, that did not sound _at all_ cool to him. But whatever. Harry walked towards him.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Sweater Vest smiled, apparently assuming that he had found his absent 'Brad.' Harry followed along, rolling his eyes and ignoring his following "Geez, Brad, it's about time, normally even you aren't _this_ sullen." Harry shook his head. _Americans._

They left the auditorium, with Harry grabbing the door for the absent-minded man on the way out. Harry had no clue where he was, but Sweater Vest seemed to know the way well enough as he walked through the halls, still not looking up from his vast stack of what was indeed sheet music. Harry still couldn't catch a glimpse at the top of the paper, though, so he had no idea as to what the music was actually for. Eventually, the two had travelled far enough through the empty hallways that Harry was somehow even more lost than he had been before. Sweater Vest finally turned to a classroom, opened the door, and walked in without another word, having seemingly forgotten Harry, or 'Brad.'

Harry blinked.

The hallways were eerily quiet. He had apparently missed the final bell when he was playing, which was good news for him, as he probably wouldn't have to deal with any leftover jocks from this afternoon's crowd in the parking lot on his way out, although he could easily take on a few of them. War instincts were still good for something, it seemed.

Harry turned back to the imposing door in front of him, inexplicably nervous of what lay on the other side. _I mean, this IS High School,_ he thought. _There could be anything–piranhas, cannibals, a TEST…..Anything! Goddamnit, you're a Gryffindor, and you've faced down Lord Voldemort_ AND _Needles! You. Can. DO. This._ Harry tried his best to build up his courage again, but nothing was working. He was good with action, with moving. He was decidedly "not good," however, with anything close to a social situation. Harry sighed, and with this final thought, prepared to meet his teenage doom.

He stepped forward and opened the door.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All! Knickity here, with an update in hand! This guy's around 3,100 words long, so I hope you all enjoy :). Anyways, I realized that I've never really done this before, and I just kinda-sorta don't wanna get sued, but anyways, here goes: I do not own Harry Potter or Glee, or any of the songs mentioned/used in this piece of fanfiction. If I did own any of the above, I would be a genius and/or too fantastic for words. So nope, no ownership going on here. I'm doing this for fun and because I love these two works, and not for any sort of monetary gain on my part.
> 
> Anyways.
> 
> Thank you all SO MUCH for your reviews! Again, I know it's cliche, but I ADORE hearing from you! You should see me, that little 'Knickity, a new Review has been posted to your story," makes me go all bright red and excited. It's a tad embarrassing, to be honest, so please, feel free to embarrass me ;)
> 
> Anyways, for all of those who were wondering, I took the liberty of Sue understanding sign language because of her history with her sister. Speaking from personal experience, a lot of kids with Down Syndrome tend to find communicating with ASL to be easier than talking. I assumed that Jean, and Sue by extension, would be able to use this language. :)
> 
> Please review! Love it? Despise it? Wish to see more of a certain character or pairing? Have some comments? Questions? A couple of suggestions? I live to hear from y'all! Hope you're having a fantastic sometime, wherever you are! And, as always,
> 
> *"Your Cocoa today has been served by Knickity."*
> 
> Thanks and good night. :)


	10. Kurt Hummel and the Terrible, Horrible, No-good Very Bad Day

Kurt Hummel was having a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. 

 

It had started out innocently enough, he supposed. He had gotten up, brushed his teeth, gone through the vast majority of his morning rituals, and made his bed before plodding to the kitchen in search of coffee and something mildly healthy that could pass as breakfast. In what was nothing short of a miracle, he had scrounged up some fresh eggs from a carton in the fridge. A dash of milk, a handful of veggies, and a sprinkle of cheese later, Kurt had two omelets merrily steaming on the stove, one intended for him and one meant for his Dad, despite the manś atrocious dieting habits. Kurt sniffed and flipped his breakfast onto plates, carefully cutting and eating the egg dish. He carried the remaining plate up to his Dadś room, knocked twice, and left the omelet sitting on the floor, as was usual these days. 

 

Kurt loved the early morning. The sky was just beginning to color, birdsong filled the air, and no one was ever willingly awake and alert in Lima before six AM. Kurt was completely alone.

 

And he loved it. 

 

Alone meant safety for him. It meant no jocks around, no incoming slushie threats, no not-so-subtle slurs, no...people, none of their brilliance or their hard-shelled minds. He breathed in the sunrise and let the early morning chill sink into his bones. He had dressed for the weather today, in a  classy blue blazer, gray slacks, pristine white shirt, and a matching ascot . Kurt let out one last sigh before trudging back inside. His Dad was up by now, and he still have a few more precious minutes before he have to leave for school. 

 

“Heya Kurt,¨ Burt greeted his son with a smile and a steaming mug of coffee, “Are you headed off to school just yet?

 

Kurt gave his Dad a one-armed hug and a forced smile. “Yep, I was just about to leave. I’m gonna grab a quick scarf, and then me and my sweet Usnavi’ll be on our way.” Burt laughed. 

 

“You and that damn car,” he chuckled, hands cupped around his ceramic mug. “Alright, well, have fun at school, okay? And don’t take any of those jocks’ shit, you hear me?”

 

Kurt rolled his eyes and forced a smile. “Of course, Dad, you know me.” ‘ _ Jock Shit’ _ , as his Dad had so elegantly dubbed it, was smeared literally everywhere in his High School. Metaphorically speaking (and who was Kurt kidding, McKinley was absolutely  _ brimming _ with the Red-Colored Jock Shit, so it could be physically speaking, as well), McKinley was a cesspool of bullying, a porta-potti of bigotry.   

 

_ Damn, I’ve gotta write that one down.  _ Kurt gave himself a mental pat on the back, whispering the phrase “porta-potti of bigotry” over and over again in his thoughts.

 

“But that’s the thing, Kurt-” and oh yeah, right, his Dad was giving the ‘I love you but the world might not’ speech again, “I  _ do  _ know you, and that worries me. ‘Cuz you’re strong as hell, kid, and won’t let anyone else in your corner. You’re gonna bear this weight on your back until something breaks, and that ain’t happening, not on my watch. We clear?” Burt fixed his son with a hard stare and a raised eyebrow (an ability that Kurt was ecstatic to have inherited from him). “I may not be as... _ spry _ ,” Burt made a face of disgust with this statement, “as I once used to be, especially not after that damn heart attack, but I will do anything and everything in my power to help you out, okay kid?” Kurt, stunned, could only nod and gape, a small smile coloring the edge of his lips. 

 

_ God, I love my idiot of a father. _

 

Kurt nodded and  grinned at his Dad, giving him a quick bear hug and a muffled “Love you,” into Burt’s flannel shirt. 

 

Burt’s, “Aw, love you too, kid,” was accompanied by an aborted hair-ruffling gesture as Kurt swatted the messy fingers away from his perfect head. Kurt dashed out of the door amid peals of his Dad’s laughter. Minutes later, Kurt was pulling up into McKinley, his cherished Navigator (which he affectionately called Usnavi, after one of his favorite musical characters) parked snugly between a crappy Buick and a rather impressive fire-red classic Harley. The mechanic in Kurt was astounded at the meticulously cared-for bike. He was just itching to run his hands over the smooth leather seating. He let his fingers glide along the gleaming handlebars, before realizing that its probable owner was only a few feet away, and approaching fast. 

 

The dude was outfitted in dark everything, with his hood up and a bag slung over his shoulder. It had a weird crest on it, some label that Kurt didn’t recognize, which was strange on its own--Kurt knew  _ all  _ of the major fashion logos. Kurt ran a glancing gaze over the bike’s owner, careful not to let eyes linger for too long. The smallest insinuation of homosexuality on either Kurt or Bike Dude’s part would be absolutely deadly, in terms of social standing. He made a brief mental catalogue of the kid’s rather nondescript outfit--a brand-new dark green hoodie that looked like it hadn’t really been worn before, black jeans, and bright red converse--and it all made his eyes  _ hurt.  _ None of those colors were okay. The flaming red shoes, while whimsical, were absolute atrocities that should be burned in the depths of hell for being put with the other dark colors that Bike Dude was sporting. Kurt paused and squinted at the intricate script printed beneath the shield-like emblem before dropping his gaze. 

 

_ HOGWARTS. _

 

Yup, it definitely wasn’t familiar. He was pretty sure that he would have remembered such a weird name, but now that he was looking at the boy, Kurt realized that the boy himself didn’t seem all that familiar. While Kurt was far from the top of the social food chain, he did like to think of himself as a pretty observant guy. He kind of had to be, though. It came with the package of being gay in a ridiculously small and backwards town. Caution was both a regular habit and an old friend at this point. 

 

And speaking of caution, Kurt realised that he could definitely use some more of it. He wasn’t quite sure how long he had been standing by his motorcycle ogling the beautiful machine next to him, but he winced when he looked at his watch.  _ Crap.  _ It was way too late for him to walk into school  unimpeded at this point--there were sure to be jocks waiting for him at the dumpsters by now. He let out a frustrated breath before sending a quick farewell nod towards the boy heading his way. Kurt finally got his reluctant feet to move towards the school doors, still wary of any red-clad jocks or slushies that might be heading his way. 

 

He was halfway across the parking lot when the voice of high school death finally reached him.

 

“Yo, ladyboy!” Karofsky shouted, features twisted into a manic mask of glee, “You tryin’ to ditch out on our daily meet-up?” He smirked and flung his beat-up backpack out by the corner of the dumpster, rolling his shoulders as two beefy accomplices flanked his side. Karofsky’s friends folded their arms and stretched their lips into menacing smiles, tilting their heads towards Kurt in a predatory gesture of concentration. 

 

Kurt swallowed. He knew that this was coming--Finn, Puck, and Mike made an effort to stop the traditional dumpster-toss when they saw it happening, but otherwise, Kurt was on his own.

 

As he usually was.

 

“Fine,” Kurt whispered, keeping his posture stiff and proud even as he stuffed his precious teal jacket and color-coordinated ascot into his bag. He cleared his throat, before turning back to the jocks and saying loudly, “Nope. I’d never dream of missing out with my favorite neanderthals.”

 

Karofsky faltered for a second, as if trying to remember what a  _ neanderthal  _ was. Probably something bad, but whatever. Oh goody, a riled Kurt made this entire endeavor just that much more fun.

 

“You giving me lip, Hummel?” his grin twisted into a snarl. “Alright then, boys. You know what to do.” 

 

Kurt stood his ground as the three red-clad bullies made their way towards him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Motorcycle-dude stop walking and stare at the four kids with a furrowed brow. Kurt snorted daintily. They had to make a fine picture--three giant lobster trolls advancing on a fashionable pastel stick of a kid. But now was not the time for imagination.   _ Focus, Kurt.  _

 

Kurt turned his attention back to his would-be assailants, just in time to see Karofsky take a rather impressive tumble to the hard blacktop of the parking lot, banging his head on the ground as he fell. Kurt froze, terrified that peals of anxious laughter would escape him the moment he allowed himself so much as a twitch. 

 

Karofsky came up from the ground gasping for breath and cursing like the worst of sailors. “SONUVA BITCH!” he yelled, a hand desperately pressed to his bleeding nose, while the other one poked at his busted lip. “Am I...am I bleeding?” He waved his slightly bloody hand in front of one of his comrade’s faces. “Am I bleeding?” 

 

The other jocks fidgeted uncomfortably. “Uh yeah man, you went down pretty hard. You wanna see the nurse or summin’ for like a band-aid? You...you don’t look so good.” 

 

“Shut up,” Karofsky mumbled, still holding one hand to his nose, “ ‘m FINE. But Hummel--”

 

Kurt snapped to attention, all snarky comments wiped from his brain at Karofsky’s murderous visage. 

“--you got off easy this morning, but we’ll be back for you at lunch, you hear? Now go and…” Karofsky seemed to deflate as he stared at his bloody hand, “go and...frolic or whatever you gays do.” He turned and walked into the building as his buddies finally let their withheld snickers loose, freely teasing Karofsky as they pushed through the double doors and into McKinley.

 

Kurt was still frozen, however. What the hell had just happened? He was Kurt Hummel. He didn’t get free passes or breaks. He got beat up and ridiculed, discriminated against and shunned. He looked around the parking lot, glancing about for any witnesses that could confirm that  _ yes, that had actually just happened.  _ He could’ve sworn that Motorcycle-dude smirking in his direction, but when he looked again, the guy had vanished. Kurt shook his head and blinked, almost certain that he had imagined it. But one thing was for sure: David Karofsky, bully extraordinaire, had just met his downfall at the hands of the school blacktop. Kurt grinned. 

 

Today was shaping up to be a good day.

  
  


Today was shaping up to be the worst day.

 

Kurt’s classes had passed without any major incidents or musical breakouts (which sometimes happened with the Glee kids, because honestly, words like ‘normal’ and ‘subtle’ and ‘chill’ just didn’t seem to be a part of some members’ vocabulary *cough* Rachel *cough*). He relayed Karofsky’s fantastic spill to his friends at lunch, soaked up the tale of Rachel’s (apparently socially-prejudiced) signing rescuer, and speculated with Mercedes about the mysterious Motorcycle-dude and whether or not he was in any way related to Rachel’s “dark angel” (her words, not Kurt’s. He and Mercedes had traded a “kill me” expression that they had perfected over the years at Rachel’s colorful description). 

 

“Maybe they’re cousins,” Tina mused, stabbing a piece of limp lettuce and glaring at it as if it had personally offended her.

 

“If that’s the case, then I wouldn’t mind making a nest in that family tree, if Man-hands is to be believed,” Santana interjected as she strode by their table, a restless Brittany in tow. She leaned on the ancient cafeteria furniture and plucked a french fry from Kurt’s plate, ignoring his protest. “Which she isn’t, usually, but what the hell, I’ll believe her for the sake of some hot new ass in this school.” 

 

Brittany propped herself up on her elbows at the edge of the table, eyes trailing after every student entering the cafeteria. “Don’t be silly, Santanna, you can’t make a nest in a Lion’s den.” Brittany stole a sip of Kurt’s homemade smoothie, once again ignoring his “Honestly, people, this is  _ my  _ food, go get your own” glare. Not heeding her tablemates’ flabbergasted stares, Brittany went cross-eyed as she stared intently at Santana. Suddenly she shrugged. “Besides, Santana, you’re a snake, I think. The ravens would kick you out of their tree.” Brittany blinked twice. “But I’m a raven or a badger and my relatives are all ravens, so you can make a home in my branches, kay?” Brittany shot them all a dazzling smile and flounced off, dragging a smirking and bemused Santana behind her. 

 

“Later, losers,” Santana called over her shoulder as the pinkie-linked girls made their way over to the ‘popular’ table. Kurt glanced around his table.

 

“Anyone know what that was about?” He was met with wide eyes and open mouths, before Rachel gasped and practically shouted, “The BAG! The kid’s bag, it had all of those animals--BRITTANY!” before the bell’s shrill ring cut her off. Kurt mentally swore as he gave a quick “Bye, girl,” to Mercedes before dashing off to math.

 

And that’s where his good day turned bad. Karofsky and Azimio were waiting for him right outside the class, just out of the teacher’s sight. Kurt gulped, but still held his chin high.

 

“Hey Homo.” Karofsky sneered, leaning up against the wall, his bruised lips curled into a cruel smirk.

 

_ Don’t let them get to you. They are nothing. Nothing.  _

 

“It’s Hummel, actually. But it must be  _ so _ much work for your two brain cells to remember that. Between the two of them, one seems to handle your cowardice and the other makes you a modern dinosaur, so,” Kurt shrugged, “I can’t blame you for forgetting my name. Way too much work for you. Now if you’ll please excuse me--”

 

“Nah-ah, Hummel, you ain’t going anywhere, cuz’ I’ve had it up to HERE,” Karofsky slammed his fist against the wall, “With your attitude. I don’t know how you escaped a beating earlier this morning, but I’m sure as hell gonna give you what you deserve now.”

 

Staring into David’s throbbing red face, Kurt couldn’t hold back the small whimper that escaped him. 

 

Karofsky was  _ mad _ .

 

“Alright, Kurt  _ Homo,  _ take off your precious jacket. You’ll need it later to wipe up your blood when we’re through with you.” Karofsky practically spat the words at Kurt’s feet.

 

Kurt could feel his traitorous limbs cracking as he stared at his trembling hands. They were shaking so badly that he was having trouble with the buttons. Karofsky was one hell of a bully, true, but he had never threatened Kurt with such intense physical violence before. Kurt sent a lowered glanced around the halls, desperate for help, only to find them cleared of all bystanders and potential rescuers. Not that any of these people would actually help the school’s only out kid anyways. Kurt looked back at the smug Azimio and fuming Karofsky. Pressure was building in his chest, threatening to burst out. It was panic, desperation, a useless ast plea for mercy.

 

He was alone.

 

Like always.

 

“I’ll give you what you want,” Kurt blurted, fearing for his life, “Whatever you want. Money, homework help, I’ll orchestrate my own slushing. Anything. A-a-anything but this. Please.” It came out in a strangled whisper. He wasn’t afraid of the pain. He was afraid of what his injuries would do to his father, to sweet Burt, who didn’t deserve a freak son or the stress that worrying over Kurt would cause him. His heart was already weak. Seeing Kurt come home from school bloody and bruised would only break the fragile organ. 

 

Karofsky had an odd gleam in his eye. Then he looked at Azimio, who looked like he was holding in a burst of sadistic laughter at Kurt’s (rather pathetic, and Kurt knew it) begging. Karofsky glanced between the twd into some twisted and so terrifyingly cruel that Kurt couldn’t stand it anymore--he bolted. 

 

He ran down hallways, skidded around corridors, ducked and weaved through all of the school’s nooks and crannies, through obscure passages that were sadly familiar to him. He knew this school. He knew how to hide in it. He left the football players’ bellows echoing behind them as he sprinted until he finally collapsed, shaking, on the tiles by his locker. He refused to cry. He was dying to unleash the scream caught like a best between the bars of his ribcage, to just pound his fists in frustration and tear down the walls and the world that had let this kind of shit happen to him. 

 

He had escaped the jocks for now at least. He had to stay together, had to stay strong. He was Kurt Goddamned Hummel, and he was stronger than the hell he was trapped in. He was Strong, he was capable, he was  _ fine.  _ He could take this. The bullies didn’t mean anything. He knew his worth, he knew who he was. Nothing could change that, no one could take that from him. He was Kurt Hummel, destined for greatness, and he would damn well act like it. He grit his teeth, yanked on his blazer, carefully re-did his jacket buttons, brushed a hand through his hair, meticulously re-styled his disgruntled coif, stuck his chin up, and opened his locker. 

 

And then Human Natural Disaster Sue Sylvester walked down down the hall, her trademark sense of doom clouding around her like a rotten perfume. She left chaos and pain in her wake as she screeched at a random Freshman that had appeared in the hallway. She had murder on her face, and Kurt gulped as she turned her raptor eyes on him, wincing as they they narrowed at him in a distinctly predatory fashion. He was expecting her sharp call of “PORCELAIN!” but was still surprised (and slightly terrified, if he was being 100% honest with himself) when she paused by his locker. Great. This was  _ so _ not what he needed right now. He fingered his lock nervously, only for Sue to casually prop herself up on a locker directly in front of him, inspecting her blood-red nails as she did so. 

 

“So, how we doin’ today, Ladyface?”

 

Kurt could do nothing but stare at the tracksuited woman in front of him. Was she really doing this  _ now? _

 

Sue continued, completely oblivious to his incredulity. It all went downhill from there. Sue inquired after the glee club, made some references to just how bad they were and made children cry, and then ridiculed his orientation by saying something about he puked glitter and rainbows. 

 

_ What the hell. _

 

He let out a weak but token “Hey!” of protest as she sauntered away to her newest victim. Kurt turned back to his locker and shoved his head in, grateful for a moment of solitude.  _ Ten seconds,  _ he thought,  _ just ten seconds, and I’ll be good to go.  _ He finally closed his locker and turned around, bag slung over his shoulder, only to be met with the slightly surreal sight of Motorcycle-Dude wiggling his fingers and waving his arms in complicated gestures at a fuming Coach Sylvester. The conversation seemed to be pretty one-sided--Sue would scream abuse at the kid, mostly related to Glee for some reason, and the guy would respond with a slight smirk and dancing hands. With one last remark about a “knock-off Ariel,” Sue strode back down the corridor and the kid jumped while fumbling for something in his pocket before dashing off to a door marked “Mens.”

 

_ Well. That was weird.  _

 

Kurt spent the rest of the period fiddling with his phone and trying to make himself look busy at his locker. He was so absorbed in doing nothing that he failed to notice the new kid slip out of the bathroom and the foaming horde of jocks gathering at his back. 

 

“Oh, Huuuuu-mmmmellll,” Azimio called in a sickly-sweet sing-song voice, “We’re  _ back.  _ And this time,” he spread his arms out, encompassing his teammates behind him, “I’ve got friends, unlike you, you pathetic little--”

 

“Heya, Freak!” Karofsky butted in. Azimio looked put out for a second, but shrugged before fist-bumping Karofsky, matching wicked grins on their faces.

 

Kurt winced, but jutted his chin out and fiddled with the strap of his bag. This was ok. It was public. Lots of people.  _ Witnesses.  _ They wouldn’t physically hurt him here--this was very obviously a show of strength, entertainment for the rest of cowardly sheep of the school.

 

“You know,  _ Kurt,”  _ David sneered, “I don’t like you.”

 

“Well, that should be fairly obvious by now, Karofsky,” Kurt shot back, confidence rising in him at knowing that he was  _ safe  _ here right now, made bold by all that had gone down earlier in the day, “I hate to say it, but I’m just not your type. You’re meant for someone much less, how do I put this... _ fabulous _ than me. Believe me, I’m _ way _ out of your league.” Kurt’s words were practically dripping with sarcasm. He knew that this certainly wouldn’t end well for him, but eh. He’d had worse. 

 

Karofsky’s face was steadily getting redder and redder as Kurt went on. The assorted crowd of jocks behind him sniggered. Azimio openly scoffed at Kurt’s words. 

 

“Ain’t nobody want your gayness here, Hummel,” he said, turning to his comrades, “What do you say we  _ wash  _ it off of him, boys?”

 

The mass of red had barely started their whoops and cheers before trying to shove sloshing red cups in his face. Kurt had less than a second to realize what was happening, horror dawning on his face before reflexively bringing his arms up to shield his eyes.

 

What happened next was an absolute blur.

 

Kurt was yanked out of the way of the slushies, shoved haphazardly against the lockers and sliding in shock to safety. Kurt glanced desperately up at his savior, dumbfounded to see the new kid moving with almost inhuman speed as he darted between the jocks, hands blurring as they flicked and tipped the jocks’ slushies back on themselves. Kurt could only sit and stare up at his savior in awe. The guy’s hoodie had fallen down to reveal a mass of unruly jet-black hair, an almost gaunt-looking face, and a mouth made thin by pressed-together lips. The dude seemed to be holding back a smirk as he battled the most terrifying bullies in school with their own ‘weapons.’ He moved with the lithe grace of a predator, and Kurt swallowed. He knew people, knew how the violent ones held themselves with barely-contained rage, how the shy ones huddled in on themselves, and how the dangerous ones moved fluidly and without hesitation.

 

And this kid was definitely dangerous.

 

Kurt gulped as the boy finally came to a standstill, a whirlwind of limbs suddenly frozen as the threat was deemed neutralized. The jocks were screaming high-pitched cries of surprise, their voices made shrill by the icy chills of the slushies. They were soaking wet and dripping with great globs of red ice chunks. Kurt wanted to laugh and applaud the stranger for his recklessness. Seeing the jocks standing there witless and in shock was one of the best things he had ever seen in his life.  _ This kid is totally awesome _ . 

 

Kurt suddenly noticed that the halls had fallen deathly silent, save for the slow and measured  _ drip-drips  _ of the slushies and fat trails rolled of the jocks and made puddles on the dirty tiles. Kurt fought back a grin. 

 

Suddenly, his dark-clad savior turned and glanced down at Kurt, clearly fighting back a shit-eating grin of his own. Kurt froze, helpless in the face of such a social defiance. He could only stare back at the kid in absolute awe as he finally saw what Rachel meant about a ‘dark angel’ roaming the halls of McKinley High. The kid winked, and Kurt’s attention was immediately  drawn to his smiling green eyes, and wow, those  _ eyes.  _ The word sounded far too plebeian for such deep and glittering orbs. If eyes were truly the window to the soul, then Kurt wasn’t so sure what to think of this guy--those eyes held unfathomable darkness, interspersed with mirth that almost seemed to shine and sparkle like the stars. They were emeralds. Kurt blinked.

 

And the kid was gone, dashing madly down the hall, a dazed sea of red thundering after him mere moments later. Kurt watched them leave in a haze, and almost burst into helpless laughter when he saw the kid’s middle finger stuck proudly up and aimed behind him at the jocks hot on his trail. But seriously.

 

_ What the Hell had just happened?  _

 

Kurt stared after the retreating mob as he slowly and shakily got to his feet. Gossip at McKinley travelled faster than the speed of light, and by noon tomorrow, the school would have either labelled Kurt’s rescuer a hero or an outcast. He reached into his bag, ignoring the few stragglers still milling around the halls in shock, and brought out his cell phone, dialling Mercedes’ number with trembling hands. 

 

She picked up on the second ring. 

 

“‘Cedes, we need to call an early emergency Glee meeting. Now.”

  
  


Ten minutes later, the entirety of the Glee Club (minus their fearless and infamously clueless leader) had assembled in the choir room, draped over chairs and scattered across the room in varying degrees of primness. Santana and Brittany were seated by Artie and Quinn, whispering furiously with one another, while Mike and Tina had sequestered themselves in the back of the room doing nauseatingly cute and coupley things. Finn and Sam were lounging on the chairs and heavily involved in a game of paper football as Rachel watched them while muttering under her breath. Mercedes and Sugar were huddled over a fashion catalogue. The room was alive with gossip, creating a low buzz that hovered over the entire group as everyone pretended that the mounting tension wasn’t there. The room went silent as Kurt burst through the doors, knocking over a music stand in his undeniable excitement. 

 

“Everyone, I bring with me news of revolutionary proportions.” He gasped out, smiling so hard that his face looked like it was about to split in half. 

 

“Kurt, what is this about?” Mercedes asked.

 

“McKinley,” Kurt paused, holding his hand up for quiet (and dramatic effect, but they didn’t really need to know that), “Is, as of 1:47 this afternoon, under the protection of our very own unidentified Guardian Angel.” Without giving a chance for anyone to interrupt, Kurt launched into his story, a tale of the kid with a cool bike and almost magical eyes, with a zigzag scar marring his face and the bravery to face the entire football team and make it out _ not only alive  _ but _ standing tall.  _ His audience gasped in all of the right places, held awe in their faces at all of the right parts, and even Santana looked like she was ready to hunt down the new kid when Kurt had finished with his story. 

 

“See?” Rachel said, perched delicately on her chair, overwhelming smugness evident in her every word, “I was right. A  _ dark. Angel.”  _ She smirked, dragging out the last two words. 

 

“Nope,” Brittany smacked her lips together, popping the  _ P, “ _ I told you before, he’s a  _ lion _ . But yeah, he could be a dark angel, the darkest kind, really.”

 

Everyone spared that statement two seconds of flabbergasted silence before launching back into speculations about the new kid.

 

“Dude, with moves like that, the guy’s gotta be a ninja.” Artie said. 

 

“Awesome.” Finn whispered, an oafish grin on his face.

 

“Sweeeeet, he can teach me some mad moves.” Same fist pumped the air.

 

“He’s an alien.” Sugar said.

 

“A model!” Mercedes called out.

 

The theories spiralled from there, as the new kid’s past was spun and then discarded in a matter of seconds, followed by an even crazier tale of who he was and why he was in Lima.

 

Finn had just put forth a possible story involving a mad scientist father, a mermaid turned human, a herd of rabid cats, a Zefron poster and a Red Vines factory when Santana cut him off with a snarl. 

 

“Dear Lord, Frankenteen, that theory is fruitier and nuttier than my Abuela’s Christmas cake, and that is saying something. Now everyone, calm your asses down, this is absolutely ridiculous. There’s a new kid and I admire his balls, but he’s gonna lose his actual, real-life testicles if he pulls any shit like this again. This town is small but it ain’t that tiny. We’ll run into his scrawny ass eventually and until then, I’m not gonna sit here and listen to you squabble like the loud,” she pointed a finger at Rachel, “Delusional,” the finger moved to Finn before passing on to Sam, “And imbecilic uncultured swine that you all clearly are. If we’re here, we’re gonna get some goddamned work done. No pale scrawny-assed newbie will cost me another shiny trophy this year. I needs another win to keep me up at this place. I feed off of victory and the souls of the weak. We’ve got a lot of the latter and none of the former, so let’s get back to work.” Santana  leaned back and crossed her arms. narrowing her eyes and glared at the wide-eyed teenagers around her.

 

The club gawked at her.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, let me put this in terms you can actually understand.  _ Shut the hell up, you worthless sacks of skin.”  _

 

And at that moment, the choir doors opened with a thunderous bang, and William Schuester himself strolled in, resplendent in a sweater-vest and hair that would put a lamb’s curls to shame.

 

And just outside the choir door, anxiously dreading his foray into extracurricular life, stood their anonymous angel, contemplating whether or not the DMLE would accept a room full of teens as a legitimate reason to break the statute of secrecy and apparate away.

 

His head said no. 

 

His racing heart said  _ hell yes. _

 

But he was a Gryffindor. And damn it, someday that phrase would stop working on him, would stop prompting him to throw himself headfirst into danger.

 

But that day was not today.

 

And so Harry Potter, unwitting Guardian angel to wizards and muggles alike, opened the door to the McKinley High choir and walked inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry all, the spacing got weird.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! I'm Knickity! This is my first-ever fanfic, You can find me at fanfiction.net under the same username.
> 
> If you comment, I will love love love you forever and forever. Feel free to yell at me as well, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Have a great life!


End file.
